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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 months

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Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

#könig x reader #könig x you #mythology au #arthurian au #historical au

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biribaa · 7 months

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I saw you were taking requests for The Amazing Digital Circus, so if you want can you please write Headcannons for Kinger, Caine, and a character of your choice x a reader who’s abstracting in front of them

Also remember to drink lots of water and to take breaks!

-🧪Anon

Kinger, Caine and Ragatha x reader who's abstracting in front of them

I appreciate your kindness but I'm a computer, I think water is one of the things I need to "drink" less and prevent more.

TW/CW: AHH... Spoilers, also angst. Reader does get abstracted in all scenarios cuz we still dont rlly know if someone can be saved from getting abstracted

Kinger

Imagine lost your partners TWICE. Lolololol loser/J

Everything seems to occur in slow motion from Kinger's point of view, a heart he once had is somehow beating against his body. He prays to any god on this earth, be it real or not, or even Caine maybe, that this nightmare isn't happening again to him. Please, everyone, but not you.

Kinger tries to do everything so his lover don't reach the great peak of their insanity, even though he's not very good at it, knowing his personality. But trust me when I said, he tried. Who cares if he will get all glitched for touching your form, he needs you.

He never thought he would live another nightmare inside a nightmare. And in seconds that felt like painful hours to Kinger, here "you" are, a noisy form covered in eyes that flash in different colors. Your skin (if we can call it skin) moves abruptly as if it were a bag full of enraged cats. And, god, how he wished it was him instead.

Things are resolved by the talking human jaw, and yet the silence in Kinger's little pillow fort is no longer comforting as it once was. Silence now makes the small chess piece itch in agony. Silence that could be enjoyed with your presence, with holding your hand or dancing with you, and chat about random stuff he and you knows. The feeling of missing someone is familiar to him, and yet, it hits him in ways that his years in this circus haven't hit him.

Caine

While Kinger tries to do everything, Caine actually does anything to try saving your corrupted mind, and the lack of power in this situation leaves the digital being in panic. A simple snap of the fingers is not enough, and this information makes him tremble in ways he never thought he would tremble before for a simple human.

You aren't just any character, you are his favorite, the lil' buddy he spoils every hour and that always push a giggle from him. You were his very own star. The show could continue the same without you, Caine was sure of it, but could he? Without a character as entertaining as you in action?

"Of course I can fix them, I am Caine!" It's a phrase that was repeated several times in the presenter's programming, But with every grunt coming from the thing that once was you, it's just a reminder to Caine that he did a horrible job trying to take care of you. There were other characters that were abstracted of course, but... You were special to him. His favorite star. His star.

Caine even feels hesitant to put you in the hole of other characters who were abstract before. He preferred to keep you in a cage away from other people's contact, with no one hurting you and no one hurting you.

He knows, he knows the painful truth that you cannot be considered a sapient being, but even though you are a trace of what you once were, Caine doesn't have the courage to lose you forever.

With the other characters, Caine will act normally, with his loud and lively personality. Only if they analyze Caine close enough, the characters would notice something wrong with him.

And then, sometimes, he just stares at you in the cage. Caine ponders if he should admit the lost of his favorite star, it would be easier, but the pride in his chest screams that there must be some way that he could actually save you from...this.

Ragatha

Somehow, the scene is all silent for her. Ragatha stares at you as if the impossible itself is happening in front of her.

Ragatha holds your hands about to disappear, she caressed what was left from your shoulders, she hurriedly whispers words that would normally calm you down, but nothing can save you from the fate of your sanity, just leaving her with the pain of being glitched.

Of course, she had her other friends like Pomni, but lost you?!

Ragatha thinks she saw everything during her new experience in the digital circus, but something common like losing someone so important was the end of the line for her. You were her darling, her sunshine and her little everything even.

Everything she did sounded slightly more boring and boring without your presence, and Ragatha could do nothing about it. She continues (at least tries) to remain strong after that, still trying to complete the little adventures that Caine gives to the participants. But Ragatha's slow pace and lack of smiles was very noticeable.

The weight on Ragatha's chest is too much, losing someone so sweet and perfect for her in such a horrible way is too much. And the worst part is that Ragatha believes that she could have done something to save you, she could have been with you more often so that your mind didn't fall apart like this. But now, she can do nothing but mourn.

#x reader #canon x reader #reader insert #tadc x reader #tadc ragatha x reader #tadc caine x reader #tadc kinger x reader #the amazing digital circus x reader

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after-witch · 7 months

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Horrorfest: Unfurled Splendor [Yandere Xiao x Reader]

Title: Unfurled Splendor [Yandere Xiao x Reader]

Synopsis: You know daylight existed, once. You just can't remember what it really looked like.

For 2022 Horrorfest request: always night trope with xiao

Word count: 1270

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, isolation

There are certain things that you must tell yourself on repeat or you’re certain that you’ll forget them. They keep you tethered to the ground, sometimes by a thread, so that you don’t simply give up and float away.

One, you were not always here, in this little house created inside Xiao’s abode. “House” being a lofty term for a space with two rooms, a simple bathroom and open living space.

You used to live outside, and not the artificial outside that he created at your behest (and begging) but the real outside. With unpredictable weather and animals that did not behave on loops, only capable of repeating what gestures and patterns Xiao had created for you.

There were other people, people who were mean or nice or somewhere in between. You worked at a job and went to shops and had friends and family.

And there was freedom, most importantly of all. An elusive creature, now. It’s not something Xiao can create and set onto a carefully tracked loop, though you’re certain that if he could come up with a way to do so, that he would try his best.

And two--this one is easiest to forget--it was not always night. There had been sunshine, once. Warm, lovely sunshine that dappled through the trees when you walked in the woods; that bore down on you, a hot blanket, in the summertime; that shone through your windows, waking you in the morning with the delighted chirping of the birds.

Yes, you had seen the sun… but that was a long time ago. Before Xiao took you here. Before you had gone nearly mad with being stuck inside all day, and he’d offered up the solution of letting you go “outside,” which turned out to be yet another artificial world of his own creation.

Before he’d decided to make it night time and never bothered bringing back the sun. That was… weeks ago, at least. You don’t know why or when he stopped bothering with daylight. Maybe it was too taxing on him to go back and forth between night and day. Maybe he just didn’t care.

You do not ask him for the daylight again, because you should not need to ask. Yet that is what your life has become, reminding Xiao of all the things humans need to stay healthy and sane. Like a variety of food and not the same thing day after day; like blankets and pillows; like a bathroom with a properly fitted tub and toilet. Like books or clothes or things to do.

Not that he always gives you what you need. He considers most of these things “wants,” to be meted out at his own discretion.

Sunlight, apparently, fit within that category of “want.” And no matter how often you stared up at the same night sky, wishing for it to fade or at least change, he didn’t seem to pick up on things.

It’s here that he finds you, again, staring at the night sky. Only this time your thoughts have grown so sour and introspective that there are tears in your eyes, sparkling in the cool moonlight that always shines into the window a little bit, dappled through a large, leafy tree.

If the tree were real, there might be any number of nocturnal animals that call it home. As it is, there is only a stationary night-bird that calls out exactly twice an hour. Mechanical. Like a clock. You thought it pretty once, but now you hate it.

There’s a touch on your shoulder and you flinch. Xiao draws back, and says your name. Evidently, he’d said it before.

You turn, just a little, and let him see your tears. Why not? It’s not like he ever responds to them, except perhaps to excuse himself or awkwardly shove a handkerchief into your hands.

This time, he actually speaks up, although you can see the tension in his stiff posture.

“Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

There might have been a time where you would have turned away from him, now, and went back to crying silently. Let him worry. Let him figure it out himself, if he could. But something about tonight--tonight? it’s always night, damn it--has you increasingly wound up. Your fingers curl on the windowsill. Your chest aches.

And so you whirl on him, chest heaving.

“What’s wrong is that it’s been night for weeks and it’s driving me mad and you don’t seem to care.” Your voice cracks on the last word, spiteful tears sliding down your cheeks.

He stares at you for a few long moments before looking out the window at the sky he created. And then he looks back at you with such a confused expression that it makes you want to slap him and bring him into your arms, one and the same.

“You… said you liked the stars,” he says, eyebrows furrowing. You can tell he doesn’t understand. He treats your complaints like that of a child, demanding something nonsensical in the middle of the day, perhaps due to a lack of nap. “So I’ve kept them there.”

You turn and gaze out the window at the same night sky that you’ve seen for weeks on end. You could explain that humans need daylight and sunlight. You could explain that seeing the same night sky for an extended period of time is enough to drive anyone mad.

Instead--

“Those aren’t stars,” you reply, quiet.

Behind you, Xiao huffs.

“Yes, they are. They look just like the ones--”

You turn on him, and your face begins to crack, eyes crinkling, mouth turning down. “They aren’t real stars. I want real stars. I want real sunshine. I want everything to be real. Can’t you understand that?”

Xiao’s eyes widen, and the look on his face takes on an expression of slight hurt. Just enough to notice. He raises one of his hands toward your cheek, moving to touch you.

“I… understand,” he says, finally. Slowly. Weighing your words and his own. You’re afraid to do the same, afraid to see you through his own eyes.

So you shake your head, blinking away the tears, and crawl into bed. Maybe in your dreams something will be different for once, but more often than not, the night sky leaked into your dreams, too.

You hear the sound of Xiao sitting down in the chair by the window as your brain begins to drift into the fogginess of sleep.

When you wake up, sunshine filters through the sole window inside the house. Birds chirp in a pattern that you know will loop, eventually. It’s startling, jarring. Your brain doesn’t make sense of it at first.

You slowly get out of bed, afraid that it might be a dream. You set aside the blanket, you stand up, you take a few steps to the window--and still, the scene outside is blissful, sweet daytime.

Your fingers rest on the windowsill, soaking in the scene he’s created before you. The sound of birds--a few you can spot, but you hate to look at them, knowing that you’ll recognize their pattern soon enough. A mechanical breeze that comes every so often (you don’t count the seconds between them, not yet); clouds, lazily drifting by in the blue sky, and all of it lit by an artificially bright sun stuck up high.

It’s not real. It will never be real. Only you are real, here, the only normal, human, mortal thing that will ever exist on this plane.

Behind the clouds, you can see the remnants of those artificial stars, still twinkling.

#yandere xiao #yandere xiao x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere #afterwitch writes #aw horrorfest

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astraystayyh · 9 months

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You and I

In which you wrongly lash out at Hyunjin and have to mend it back. Human character who makes mistakes and apologizes for them.

You've always envied the people who seek others' warmth when they are feeling down. They seem to become almost translucent, allowing their sadness to seep away from them as their loved one comforts them- as their words and touch wrap around them, leaving no room for sadness or anger to exist anymore.

You, however, are quite the opposite.

Whenever an emotion overwhelms you, you instantly withdraw yourself, refusing for anyone to approach you. You can't let anyone touch you or talk to you, not when the feel of your clothes against your skin irritates you, and you swear you can hear the sound of each blood droplet rushing through your veins, unbearably loud.

Hyunjin doesn't know this.

How could he know? How do you tell someone you've been dating for one month that something as simple as regulating your emotions drains you? That you need to hide, for a couple of hours, sometimes days, just to feel a semblance of normalcy again.

So, you kept it hidden, trying your best to still your feelings; akin to the surface of an undisturbed river. It was easy to do so when being with Hyunjin brought you immense joy. It almost lulled you into thinking that you'd stay this way forever- happy, content. But you are human, and you can't escape the very essence of it- emotions in their rawest form.

You wish you could have told him- that you'd prefer being alone and that you'd talk to him when you're feeling well again. But it isn't time for regrets now. Not when the thoughts in your head swirl chaotically, making the world around you blur. You're overwhelmed, by your studies and a voice in your head that never truly quits down. And you can feel Hyunjin looking at you from the corner of your eye.

He's been worried about you all night, asking you if you were okay and if there was something he could do to help. But every question seemed to drive you over the edge, pushing you closer and closer to the brink of exploding.

"Baby, are you sure there is nothing I can do?" he asks for the umpteenth time, placing a hand on your shoulder. His concern is evident, stemming from a genuine place of care. And you want to slap a hand on your mouth to stop the words from tumbling out, but you don't.

"You know what I need Hyunjin? For you to leave me alone. Is that so hard to understand for you?" you question, looking straight ahead. You sense him physically recoil at your words, hand swiftly retracting back near his side. "I already told you what to do, and you're just making it worse. I can't deal with this right now."

A low chuckle emanates from him, it sounds cold and distant- nothing like you've ever heard from Hyunjin.

"Deal with this? You mean, deal with me?" he stands up abruptly, hand running angrily through his hair. "You know what? You've made it abundantly clear what you needed from me. I'm just fucking stupid for being worried." He grabs his jacket, as his words pierce you like a bow shot by Achilles himself.

Really now? You brought this on yourself and now you're feeling sad? Did you expect him to apologize, beg for you? The voice in your head taunts you and your own gets caught in your throat. 'Im sorry, stay, I didn't mean to lash out' You want to plead, but you remain silent as if someone's robbed you of your ability to speak.

"I'm sorry for making it worse for you, you don't have to worry about it ever again," he sounds angry, but you can sense the underlying sadness in his words. Your eyes meet his and the look on his face tears you apart. You've never seen him so... stricken, so severely affected; by your own doing none the less.

Hyunjin slams the door behind him, as an ugly sob escapes your lips. You've hurt him, badly, you aren't sure how to fix it when you can't even fix yourself.

....

Two days have passed. Forty-eight hours of trying to sort out your thoughts, only to have them tangled even further. The reason why you were overwhelmed in the first place fades into the back of your mind. The only thing you could think of was Hyunjin.

He hadn't called or texted, not that you expected him to. He said you didn't have to worry about it anymore, so he's giving you space, lots of space at that. Isn't that what you wanted? It was, but not like this. Not at the expense of hurting him.

You look absolutely disheveled as you knock on Hyunjin's door. It's 5:47 pm, an odd time for reconciliation, at least that's what you hope will happen as Hyunjin opens the door.

He's seemingly taken aback at the sight of you. His eyes swiftly narrow, and you take an unconscious step back at the animosity in his gaze. "What do you want?"

"Can we talk, please?"

Hyunjin scrutinizes you for a moment, his expression guarded. He looks far better than you, but there are newfound dark circles under his eyes. You hope you aren't the cause behind him.

"Come in," he steps away and you enter, uncertainty hanging over the both of you like a heavy fog.

Hyunjin settles on the couch but you remain standing, pacing back and forth as you try to organize your thoughts. Everything you wanted to say seemingly vanished you when you needed it most.

"Sit down. You're making me dizzy," he finally says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. You oblige quickly, heels now tapping furiously on the ground.

"Would you like some water?" he asks after a while, and there is a timid softness in his words, one you clung to so you'd be able to breathe again.

"No, thank you." You lick your lips nervously. "Hyunjin, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have talked to you that way. I was mean and rude and I understand that I had hurt you. But it wasn't my intention. It's never ever my intention to hurt you. I care about you too much for that."

"People you care about shouldn't make things worse for you," he points out, refusing to meet your gaze.

"You aren't... I mean, it's not you. It's me."

"Really?" he arches an eyebrow at the stereotypical sentence and you groan, frustrated at your inability to articulate your regret properly.

"Look, I got overwhelmed and when I'm like this, I need to stay alone. It has nothing to do with you, or how I feel for you. And I feel for you a lot, and I'm so scared I'll lose you and I can't seem to speak well-" tears trail down your cheek and you wipe them away angrily. You brought this on yourself, you shouldn't cry on top of it.

"I'm so sorry, immensely sorry, Hyunjin. if you still want me, I promise you I will never do this again. I won't lash out at you, you don't deserve that and it was uncalled for. I'm really sorry."

His silence is deafening as you nervously pick at your cuticles, scratching them over and over in your anxiousness. Why isn't he saying anything?

"Okay, um..." you chuckle nervously, as the bulge in your throat threatens to swallow you whole. "I'll let you think of it. I'm so sorry again. And I'm sorry for coming before asking you if you were busy. I'm sorry to bother you and I'm- I'm sorry I'm this way." You hurriedly stand up, heading towards the door when a warm hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

Hyunjin's arms circle your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, anchoring you in place.

"When I'm sad or angry, being near you makes me feel better. It really does. I thought I could do the same for you. That's why I insisted on staying. But I shouldn't have. You and I are different, doesn't mean it's bad," he mumbles onto your neck, tightening his hold on you.

"You've hurt me a lot, but I forgive you because I want us to do better next time. No yelling. No harsh words, okay?"

"Okay. I'll do better. I'm so sorry. So sorry, Hyunjin, you have no idea."

"It's okay. We're good now."

"Really?" you turn around, clutching his arms tightly. "I'm so sorry."

"I forgive you, stop apologizing," he giggles softly, wiping away the tears trailing down your face.

"I'm sorry, I swear I won't do it again," you apologize again, burying your face in his chest. your tears dampen his shirt but you can't move away. Not that you could in the first place, since his hold on you only tightens further.

"I believe you. Stop crying, please."

"Okay, I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry for saying sorry."

"Shh, baby. No more crying. I missed you," Hyunjin admits softly, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

"I missed you so much more. More than you know."

"Maybe we should start telling each other exactly how much, hm? Not leave it up to imagination."

"Okay, I will. I want to work on this with you. If you want."

"I want to. Couldn't sleep without you."

"I'm so sorry," it slips from your mouth before you can stop it, guilt overflowing from you in waves.

"I thought I told you to stop apologizing, hm?" he questions as he picks you up and spins you around, as a laugh escapes your lips, morphing into full-blown giggles. It is only when a genuine smile graces your lips that Hyunjin puts you down once again.

#stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids imagine #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #hwang hyunjin x you #hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin angst #hyunjin angst #skz angst #stray kids angst #stray kids reactions #skz scenarios #skz au #hyunjin scenarios #hwang hyunjin x reader #this one personally hurt me guys

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bloompompom · 1 year

Text

Room for Dessert

in which you help your boyfriend discover he may or may not have a thing for getting you pregnant

♡ content: eren jaeger x female reader. one shot. domestic au/established relationship, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy/menstrual cycle, semi-public masturbation (car), some temperature and food play, possessive behavior/language, overstimulation, marking, pet names (baby), explicit sexual content, explicit language. reader discretion advised. ♡ word count: ~3.1k

You’d been with Eren for a while now and not once had you seriously talked about having kids.

The closest you’d ever come to it was throwing out a suggestion for a baby name just for the other to inevitably shoot it down in jest. Sometimes Eren would offhandedly say how much he looked forward to insert stereotypical fatherly activity here—you know, playing catch, pillow forts, that sort of thing. Or you’d find yourself fawning over a pair of baby shoes in a department store because, ohmygosh, who knew human beings could be so small? And you had to admit it: the thought of Eren wearing a baby carrier made you laugh.

But you had a lot of steps between now and then—whenever that moment eventually came.

That was why it came as such a surprise to Eren when he found your used pregnancy test. He discovered it in the bathroom during an afternoon spent cleaning. On his way to take out the trash, he passed you in the living room and asked about it.

You didn’t look away from the TV when you replied, “My last period was a few days late.” You were always careful enough with your birth control, but you figured it couldn’t hurt to double-check. When the test came back negative, it was barely a blip on your radar. You didn’t think it was worth mentioning. “Not pregnant, though, so worries there.”

All Eren said back was, “Oh,” like he was expecting there to be more. You didn’t read into it any further than that.

In hindsight, you should have, because it was still on Eren’s mind on the way to dinner. Your friend Jean had been seeing some girl and requested the social lubrication of a double date. You agreed to it; you just wished he didn’t choose to phrase it like that.

“You know, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen,” Eren said rather casually, like you were supposed to know what he was talking about. To you, it seemed like a weirdly existential—and delayed—answer to your simple question, ‘Can we get ice cream after?’

You gave him a look that was strange enough for him to clarify, “You getting pregnant, I mean.”

“We still live in an 800-square-foot apartment, Eren,” you reminded him.

“850,” Eren corrected. You rolled your eyes. You wanted to again when he added, “And, hey, you were the one talking nonstop about that condo we looked at.”

It was cute, you reminisced. But in your head, you continued to list all the steps you’d effectively bulldoze over if you were to get pregnant right now. “We’re not even married. What would your parents think?”

“They’ve been up my ass about grandkids since they met you, you know that.” Eren stole a glance, his eyes skipping from the road just to give you a quick once-over. “Besides, I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me I’m gonna be with you forever.”

For a fleeting moment, you couldn’t breathe because your heart swelled too big for your chest. You didn’t like the feeling, but only because the timing couldn’t be worse. The stirring in your stomach was trying to convince you to ditch dinner, so you laughed it off.

At least, you tried to. Eren worsened the knot in your gut when he said, “And you’d look, like, ridiculously hot if you were pregnant.”

You laughed again, for real this time, and held your arms out in an exaggerated loop around your belly. “Oh, yeah? My stomach would be out to here. You think that’s hot?”

“You’d make it hot.”

Right then, Eren wasn’t thinking about the traffic light he was stopped at. He was too busy thinking about you—pregnant, of course. Soft and swollen tits. The glowy look about you as you carried his child. He was pretty sure he had heard somewhere that pregnant women were always horny, too, which he wouldn’t mind one bit, obviously.

He’d take care of you, just like he always did. And once you were bigger, still just as needy and achy for him, he’d lie you on your back and coo, ‘Here, let me do all the work for you.’

Eren thought about it long enough that you had to tell him when the light turned green. And when he confessed, with boyishly pink cheeks, he needed a minute after you parked, you cackled. Apparently, your teasing and poking only made it worse, and he swatted you away when you asked what he was thinking about to make his boner go away.

Sure, you made fun of him for it, but deep down, you still wished you had asked him to turn the car around and go home. You made it abundantly clear throughout dinner.

During your separate conversations, Eren with Jean and you with Pieck—no longer just some girl to you—you made random and lingering eye contact. The look you shared with Eren, as long as the tick of a clock, had you suppressing a grin. Him, too. He slipped his hand on your thigh and gave it a light squeeze. After, you fell back into your own conversations.

And when you were back in the car, you told him, “I still want ice cream, you know.”

You didn't really want it; you just wanted to tease him. And you could see it on his face that he knew it—how it was washed over with blatant disbelief. But beneath it, he was looking at you like he wanted to tear your clothes off. You weren’t sure if he was trying to hide that, though, so you encouraged him with a coy smile.

You could hear it already, how he was about to shake his head and mutter, ‘You’re unbelievable,’ under his breath because—hello? Wasn’t the whole ice cream idea scrapped the moment you batted those fuck me eyes at him in the restaurant?

But you were wrong. Eren shifted the car into reverse, peering over his shoulder as he backed out with just a hand on the top of the wheel. He didn’t shake his head at you, and his voice was far from a mutter when he spoke.

“We can get ice cream.” He was stern about it—how he used his free hand to take your own and shove it between your legs. “But I want you to get it ready for me before we get home."

Your breath hitched in combination with Eren’s command and your surprise at how wet you were already. You could feel it through your underwear. The flowy cotton of your dress made it easy to slip your fingers beneath the band.

It was dark out. Streetlights and billboards spattered colors against the sky, all of which were dimmed by the car’s tinted windows. You focused on that—that no one could see you. You repeated it again and again as you rubbed small circles against your clit.

You didn’t know where to look. Your attention wandered from your trembling hand down to your shoes planted against the rubber mat. Then you figured you should maybe try and close your eyes.

Eren could only risk small glimpses of you—eyes all lusty and smug—and even that felt intimidating. But when he looked at you, like really looked at you, right in the face, he smiled. You moaned softly and added a bit of pressure.

Every twitch of your fingers pulled another breathy sound from you. You only stopped once you arrived at the drive-thru, but he directed you to keep going, even as he scanned over the menu.

It felt so dirty—you felt so dirty. You were soaked. But you weren’t thinking about the mess because Eren was working your hand for you until you were so, so close to coming. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you didn’t listen to a thing Eren said as he ordered for you.

Eren slipped his hand from you, then took yours away, too. You whined before realizing it was only because he had to drive to the window. Once you were back on the road, he returned your hand between your legs, just like before. You continued where you left off while he stole a few bites from your ice cream sitting in the cupholder. He was nice enough to spoon you some, too.

Eren was a physical person. Always hugging, touching you everywhere. He liked to keep a hand on you, especially while driving, so you imagined this was difficult for him—especially as you reached over to try and feel him, too.

When you were home, Eren unlocked the door and opened it wide enough for you to step inside first. You could anticipate where this was going, and you were already thinking, ‘he’s so predictable,’ when he kissed you.

He kissed you the way you knew he wanted to kiss you in the car—and in the restaurant, and even on the drive to the restaurant. He kissed you, his head tilted into yours, like he had never known the taste of your tongue until now.

Everything about him was hot. His lips on your collarbone. His hand on the side of your face. Even his breath as he pulled away.

You didn’t like the look on his face when he asked, “You said you wanted dessert first, yeah?”

He led you by the hand to the kitchen. You watched as he set down the ice cream first, then turned to you next. He palmed over your hips before lifting you by them. He placed you on your island countertop, with your dress hiked high up your legs and him snug between them.

He wrapped his hands around your jaw and brought you in for a kiss. It was at your lips first, then the corner of your mouth. You lolled your head back, letting his lips ghost over the front of your throat. When his tongue dipped into your collarbone, you took his shirt between your fists and yanked him close.

When you thought he was about to take off your dress, he went for the ice cream instead. You didn’t know what to think—even more when he took a bite. But as he let the ice cream cool his mouth, just before he swallowed, you couldn’t shy away in time before his icy lips were back on you.

You felt them in all the places he had warmed before, making the chill even worse. You giggled and fussed until he was laughing a little, too, right against your neck.

Eren fed you a bite next. It sat there, vanilla swirling on your tongue, until it melted down the back of your throat. You weren’t as nice about it when it was your turn. You dragged him to you only to lick a broad stripe up his cheek.

He groaned, half playfully with the other half probably a bit irked, and wiped off the sticky, sugary smear with the back of his wrist. You made up for it with a kiss and said, “Feed me another.”

He made a doubtful face at you but gave in anyway. You angled his face this time, allowing you to kiss at his ear. A breathy laugh left him, and as you grazed your lips down his throat, you felt his quickening pulse.

Eren sat you back by your shoulders and kissed you again. He tasted like sweet cream. He looked at you with big eyes when he pulled back, his bottom lip still wetted from your kiss, and you watched him play with the hem of your dress.

“I’m going to take this off, okay?”

You nodded.

Eren did just as he said, but he took off your bra, too. As he ate more ice cream, he whispered, “Lay back for me.”

Once again, you did as you were told. His eyes never veered from you once as he licked the ice cream at the corner of his lips.

It felt strange, laying on the counter in just your panties. The quartz was cold against your back. You were already shivering by the time Eren took one of your nipples into his mouth, his chilled tongue flicking over it. Your other was occupied with his hand, rolling it between his deft fingers that were just as hot as ever. You didn’t know what to focus on—the cold or the hot—so your mind went a bit numb.

You ditched the ice cream eventually, casting it aside just as quickly as Eren did with your underwear. He was much more focused on you, anyway. Pumping his fingers in and out of you in a way that had you softening faster than the ice cream.

And when you came, it was from his tongue, hot and wet as he licked you through your orgasm. Your head jolted up from the counter, a flurry of curses pouring from you.

“God, that was so hot,” Eren murmured, your quivering legs framing his face.

He came up to roughly bring you in for a kiss. His fingers curled around the back of your head and jerked you to him. You were so close—so feverishly tangled up in each other—that you couldn’t breathe in a way that didn’t sound pathetic and guttural. But neither could he.

And when he spoke, it was on a sharp inhale, only letting you go because he needed air eventually. “I’ve never wanted to fuck you more than I do right now.”

You didn’t say anything. You just took your legs in your hands and held them out of the way for him with a smile. It looked like his heart stopped beating right then.

Eren’s pants were around his ankles in a matter of seconds, the tip of his cock right at your entrance.

“Keep your eyes on me.” He waited until you did so. Only when you met his green eyes did he say, “That’s my girl,” and push inside you.

You watched his eyes close, groans parting his lips as he filled you. With a few rolls of his hips, you were taking all of him with no resistance. And when his body was flush with yours, you felt the blunt of his nails dig into your hips.

You loved every bit of it.

Eren’s eyes were still closed when you quietly asked, “Feel good?”

“Mhm.” Then after a pause and a twitch of his brow, “Too good.”

He stopped moving to collect himself. You giggled together, with him quieting down as he admired how you were spread and breathless below him. Then he got that look on his face again, like he couldn’t bear to hold back any longer.

He thrust inside you again, bottoming out in one go. He fucked you with long drags of his cock, but it wasn’t long before the smacking of skin echoed through the kitchen. Eren bunched his shirt out of the way, taking the bottom of it between his teeth so he could watch his cock bury into you over and over and over again. Your hands blindly searched for something—anything—to hold onto, and you clawed down his stomach.

Through gritted teeth, he muttered sweet nothings to you. He told you that you were his. How good you felt. So fucking good. He whispered how beautiful you were as he ran his fingers over your body. And when you felt his fingertips press into your stomach, you already knew what he was thinking.

“Maybe I should get you pregnant,” he said with feigned thoughtfulness. Just the words alone made your toes curl. He leaned over you, his voice a spitty mumble against your chest as he said, “So everyone will know that you’re mine.”

He bit down, sucking at the delicate skin just below your collarbone. You couldn’t think of anything but how good it felt.

Eren straightened out, his pace never breaking once. “That way you know I’m the only one that can fill you like this.” He clutched his hand around your own and pinned it to the counter. You could feel the love in it—his need for you—just as much as you felt his possessiveness. “That I’m the only one who can make you feel this way.”

You came then, loudly, with your bottom half spilling off the counter as you did. When you went limp, Eren slid a hand beneath your back and dropped you to the floor. He flipped you to your hands and knees, placing a flattened hand against the small of your back to arch it nicely for him.

Your legs were shaking. You could feel the muscles of your thighs stutter and threaten to give out. It was a chant of ‘oh fuck’ that spilled from you as you reached behind to try and grab onto Eren. It was almost too much, you were still sensitive, and you could barely hear him over the pounding in your ears as he shushed you.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m not going anywhere.” You were squirming too much for him. He yanked you back onto his cock. “We’re gonna keep going ‘til you’re full of my come.”

You only made a strangled, wimpy noise.

“That’s okay, right? For me to come inside you?” he asked, still in the same tone that was as sweet as artificial sugar.

“Uh-huh.”

“Use your words. Tell me where you want me to come.” Eren was close; you could tell he kept his voice low to hide the quiver.

“In me,” you moaned, slipping from your hands to your elbows.

“Say it again. Louder.”

“In me!”

He pounded into you senselessly, the snapping of his hips growing erratic as he collapsed over you. His warmth cloaked over you, his chest pressed against your back as you begged for him. “Please—please fill me up and make me yours.”

His hips rammed against your ass a few more times before, as promised, he came inside you. With a toss of his head, his hands worked you back on his cock a few more times, making sure he pumped every last bit of his come into you. He groaned, harder than you had ever heard before. The sound that tore through his throat had you already pining for the next time he’d finish inside you.

Eren released you to fall to the tile. It felt good to lie there, letting it cool your balmy skin. You were still catching your breath as you rolled over to your back. Eren sat back on his heels, appearing just as taken as you.

“Where did that come from?” you asked.

“I, uh—” He laughed a bit awkwardly and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not really sure.”

You studied each other for a lengthy moment, him trying to be modest about looking where his come was leaking from you.

Eventually, you broke the silence to ask, “So should I stop taking my birth control?”

#eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren smut

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sunny-mercya · 4 months

Text

Ordinary Godly

Apollo x Male Reader

Fandom -> Percy Jackson Series

Masterlist

Percy Jackson, who has fought a variety of Monsters and argued—even battled at some point—with the Godly deities of the mighty Olympus, had expected everything—when stepping into the home of Jason and Will, with the rest of his little friends troop—but nothing like this.

Seeing you, the deity of tranquility and slumber—another brother of Hypnos—for the very first time in actuality—was a weird experience of meeting for Percy.

»THERE YOU ARE! MY TWO PRECIOUS SUMMER BOYS! OH, NICO! I GREET YOU TOO, COME HERE!«

You had emerged from the Kitchen, baggy clothes—consisted of a large tee with the print of some band name and lyrics quote and pyjama pants—covered in what seemed to be flour and cocoa powder.

Your voice was loud, filled with thrilling excitement of joyfulness. Taking Jason and Will into your arms, hugging them tightly against you and giving each of them more than just a few kisses to the cheeks and head. Nico had been pulled into this as well, suffering through much affection as well.

You're radiating more hyperactivity energy and child like behaviour off, than the emotions you're meant to send out.

Walking into a home, in which Jason and Will had grown up with their two godly parents, which looked so damn mundane humane—that Percy had to take a double check on that Cookie Tin-can, filled with sewing stuff.

It confused him. If they all had learned one thing of being Demigods—half children of godly blessings, which sometimes could be seen as a curse though—that none of the gods and goddesses—their other parentally half—live like a ordinary human.

Always exotic enormously flashy, expensive, but never dare to boring and dull—than a god whose dull and pathetic unnoticeable, could not be worthy for eternity of mighty existence.

Yet, Percy thought, both the house and you are a stark contrast to what they have been told. Simple and ordinary.

»Are we sure this is really a deity?« asked Percy in a hushed whisper, leaning down to Annabeths ear and elbowing her in the side.

»I haven't seen Demosonos personally, but I highly doubt Jason and Will wouldn't recognised their parent.« she whispered back, keeping wary glances at them—some Gods can't be trusted.

Nico who had managed to free himself from the suffocating hug of love, stepped back to them and hissed in the same hushing voice of whispers;

»Do you two have any death wishes? Don't upset them.«

I mean, Percy thought—letting his gaze wander back to you—if we do so, what would happen? Ares, Zeus, Hades, Athena and his own father—Poseidon—are much more scarily and worthy of being called merciless fighters.

You on the other hand, looked—truthfully—weak. Percy could for sure, probably, take you down in seconds.

After all, from what he could gather, you're more than just a minor god—even less than minor, a subcategory inside a subcategory—unworthy to be mention with the same breath of saying Nxy, Hypnos and all the way to Morpheus.

Still, Percy is after all confused to why their Prophecy and Quest is, to seek you out and ask for your help.

Lesser Gods aren't helpful, they're more a nuisance.

~~~

»And this must be your other friends? Right? Perseus and Annabeth?« the question was more towards your sons.

You stepped towards the two teens, Will had already pulled Nico away to the Sofa and Jason had gone to the Kitchen, greeting loudly his other dad.

Percy and Annabeth felt both a bit uncomfortable with your vacant stare and the friendly smile on your lips.

»Uhh, It's Percy actually, I don't liked to be called Perseus« Percy didn't know, why of all the things he could say, decided to say this—but he did, mouth being faster than his brain again—and Annabeth elbowed him hard in the rips, a tiny gaps of breath intake left her lips.

The friendly smile never wavered from your lips, nodding at them—they couldn't tell if you had even listen properly, vacant glint still in your eyes—head dropping a bit to the side.

»Aah! You want some tea and Sweets? C'mon, c'mon, now don't be shy you two, take a seat. Will be a dear and help me« clapping your hands, you ushered the two teens to the Sofa, skipping already to the Kitchen.

»I will explain later a bit,« with that being said, Will stood up as well.

Neither of the three said anything, looking around the living room with more interest than addressing the current situation—or more issues perhaps?

»I thought you knew what he is like Nico....I mean with you being Wills boyfriend, you are prone to meet his parents«

»Hey hey, don't come at me now Chase. I only have met Mr. [Surname] like three times and that was in the city.«

»Small tip of advice, don't be so stiff. Relax a little or Pa's gonna worry again« they hadn't noticed Jason, who have come back from the kitchen with a tray of Tea cups and Kettle.

Will following soon after with a Tray of sweets and pastries, setting it down on the coffee table. They both getting comfortable on the sofas—Jason on the main big one, while Will had sat with Nico on the right mini sofa and Percy and Annabeth on the left—again.

Nico instantly following Jasons advice, relaxing his body and sliding just a bit down.

When Apollo had entered the living room, Annabeth and Percy gasped loudly in surprise. Standing up they bow their head or more like, Annabeth forced Percy to do as well.

»Lord Apollo!«

»Since when did you become a Lord? Aren't you a God?« you asked in amused surprise, taking a seat as well.

»Apparently just now, love« Apollo shrugged, Will started to laugh and Jason sighed in disappointment, shaking his head—so much for giving advice to his friend, to not be so formally stiff and causing tension.

~~~

The hours passed and Percy and Annabeth had relaxed over the times. Coming to the conclusion that you aren't one of the tricky gods—like Ares—who likes to use them as soldiers.

You asked them various questions, be it about the quest or some daily things; like what's your favourite TV-Show.

It wasn't long till you slumped, actually passing out from something akin to exhaustion and sleep, body leaning against Apollo—who had long wrapped an arm around you in a protective manner.

Jason stood up, taking your legs and moving them onto the couch. Getting a blanket from the footstool—where are tower of them was stacked—and covering you a bit to the hips with it.

Percy couldn't help himself but to stare at the marks—he first took notice of them when you handing him a gummy-bear—which covers your arms, starting from your wrist and ending somewhere at your neck or collarbone.

He had seen these types of Marks before. Racking his brain for the information he had read about or being told from.

Oh.

Percy jumped up, snapping his fingers and pointing—accusingly—at you. Head turning to Annabeth and again his mouth had been faster than his brain.

»That's THE DEMON OF OLYMPUS!« he had shouted it so loud, that your body jerked up—stirring awake is what you begun, already mumbling something sleepily out of context.

Apollo moved you quickly into his arms, shushing you gently back to the dreamlands and humming a little tune of it.

A mess had started to erupt between them all.

»I know! It's still highly disrespectful to point that out, seaweed brain!« Annabeth slapped him hard against the shoulder.

»Do you have a death wish, Jackson? Do you want us get killed?« hissed Nico, giving a glare, sitting uptight again and body going absolutely rigid stiff.

The worst part for Percy was probably the disbelieving disappointment frown on both, Jasons and Apollos—though his frown looked more like concealed bubbling anger—face.

Apollon stood up with you in his arms, ready to walk out. Will was about to stand up as well, wanting to go with his father.

»I'll take it from here boys. I expect from you two to inform your friends properly now, to ensure that such outrageous behaviour won't happen again.«

»Wow, way to go Percy. Upsetting one of the kinder gods in just one go.« Will wanted to laugh, to make it seem that it wasn't that bad, but his laugh came more like a strangled cry out.

»How many times did we, did I, told you to keep your mouth shut in more than just one occasion?!« chastised Annabeth, giving him another shoulder slap.

»No, honestly Percy, be fucking glad Pa had another slumber episode of his or you would....I don't know, but it wouldn't be nice.«

»But he's the Demon of Olympus! Isn't he not? The marks of Zeus's banning are a clear sign of it. I don't get why we need help from an evil deity who also deceives everyone to believe he's being known as a lesser god«

»Even for you Perseus, that's a new personal low! How dare you to say such horrible things about my Pa.« Jason stomped off, the anger radiating off and his face slightly red from it.

Will had decided to inform Percy properly about his dad's complete and historical story. He didn't want his parents to be offended—or feel upset and angered—after all they need their help and support for the upcoming—already starting—quest.

You're the brother, a child from Nyx, of Hypnos. It is true, your actual deity personality, form and power is akin to one of chaos—you're a personification of weather—raging storms to be exact—and a sneer of demonic vileness petty violence.

During a darker time in history, Zeus had strikes you with lightning—sealing your actuality, banning them for a balance—and splitting you into what you are now; god of tranquility and slumber.

The splitting had also caused a turn in personality itself. Making you more childish, airhead and forgetful. Kindness from you, comes not completely naturally—feeling more forced without meaning to, though you do love and this was a genuine one.

»Yeah okay, but why is Demosonos—uh, [Name], with your father, Will?«

»They're married?«

»Why?«

»You're officially demoted from Seaweed brain to dumbweed brain.« muttered Nico, pinching the bridge of his nose.

»They married for like years and that's because out of actual love and I'm not gonna tell you their sappy love story.«

»Still I don't get how like Lord Apollo, who blends like the sun, is being married freely to someone like him, a actual demonic person«

»I–oh my fucking god, Percy. My dads are married because they love one another, completely smitten they are, how hard is that to understand?!« Will groaned in desperation, taking a handful of biscuits again—had he almost eaten the whole bowl.

And Nico thought, how a great way to upset a God and already dooming their quest in the very beginning.

~~~

Jason felt hesitant, as if he were five again and didn't wanted to disrupt his parents sleeps because he had a nightmare, to step into the bedroom.

Respectfully he knocked a few times on the door, before opening it and stepping inside.

The bedroom was almost shrouded in complete darkness, except for the dimmed nightshade next to the bed.

Apollo had acknowledged his son, didn't say anything though—to occupied to lay in bed next to you, hand supporting his head as he drove his fingers through your hair.

A cooled washcloth was placed over your face. You hadn't started to sweat, sign of upcoming fever, but Apollon didn't wanted to risk it—doing a prevention beforehand.

What most, be it his own kind or humans, didn't know is that Zeus lightning strike to you has caused more than just a split personality—created a rift in your health, leaving you vulnerable and weak and prone to sickness.

Apollo couldn't do much about it. Not even with his powers of healing, leaving him a pit of despair and self-hatred whenever you got sick.

»Do you know the actual, not that stupidly outrageous idea of us gods being unfaithful, I mean some truly are, reason, why we have decided to let you and Will and all your other siblings been born from Humans?«

»No,« Jason shook his head, debating with himself if he should sit or lay down next to you, in the end he chose a mix of both.

Jason had sometimes wonders why it always had been that way—being born from humans and a deity—even though gods and goddesses could bear children just as well.

When he had been younger, wasn't all that long ago in his early teen years—memory still fresh in mind and sometimes upsetting him—he had accused his father, they had another argument that day, he never had loved dad in the beginning and being unfaithful to him—cheating with woman's and only seeing you as some kind of trophy.

That day was the only day and time where Jason had seen Apollo with actual anger on his face. The kind of anger which bubbles in you till it turns into hatred and pettiness.

»It's because your dad wouldn't survive the procedure of giving birth and I mind you, the whole explanatory of the aspect itself of how we gods and goddesses giving birth and the many various ways to do so, is chaotic complexing on its own.«

»You mean, dad would die? But you are immortals and immortals aren't meant to die«

»Yes and no. Even though we're immortals of eternity, there are still ways—ancient barbaric ones—to kills us or at least in a sense of us being dead. No, no, Jay, the reason isn't death, he just wouldn't survive.«

Jason furrowed his brows, not understanding what his father meant or trying to tell him.

»You well aware of what happened to your dad, his history. Zeus had strike him down, leaving him in the few hours of unconsciousness—which had caused a spurt of utterly violent storms throughout the land—vulnerable and unable to defend himself against any sort of danger and hostile.«

»Are you trying to tell me that, Zeus had, you know—with dad?«

»Dear lord! Jason! Absolutely not! Don't ever think of such disgusting scenarios and manners again.«

Apollo sighed deeply, not having expected his Son to come to such conclusions. You stirred again, your hand coming up to your face and taking the washcloth off.

Bleary you opened your eyes, trying to make out where you are and who you are.

Apollo, praying silent apologies already, leaning down to you—pressing a soft kiss onto your lips and with a quick whisper of humming lullaby, brought you back into the grips of slumber. Unconscious you rolled onto your side, over to him and into his arms.

»You put him into force sleep! Didn't you told us to never use our powers of sleep in such forceful ways? It's a rule number one!«

Apollo raised a brow at his son, who looked absolutely mortified for a good minute and turned into distasteful disappointment.

»Now now, my son, don't give me such gaze. I too am not proud of what I did, but it had to be done. It's still a sensitive topic and I don't want to cause a distress, disturbance or even distrust perhaps. Now, where was I? Aah yes—«

»So like I said, during the hours of unconsciousness, a wave of sickness rolled over—custody of Pandora's box being opened—and infected painfully your dad. Leaving him, once he had woke up, in a whimpering withering anxiety filled mess.«

»And that's how you meet Dad then, right?«

»That's a story for another, but yes. Anyways, to what I'm trying to say is, your dad is still too vulnerable and weak—sickness prone, to be able to handle the whole procedure of giving birth. I mean we tried it once and only, but.....let's just say, dad still has scars from it. And thus the reason why we and perhaps most of us gods, decided to let our children been born from humans.«

Jason gulped, trying to not choke on his tighten up throat. He hadn't been aware of it, how the true story had happened, but it all makes so much sense now.

The times you got so bedridden, unable to do anything but sleep, that Will cried for days and nights thinking you're about to die from incurable illness.

Or when Will had been still a child, having gotten a nasty flu and you had to take care of Will and him—Jason himself had been in some bad mood the whole week to even consider to help you out as he was the older brother after all—all on your own, because his father had been away for business trips—and you looked so exhausted and ready to pass out any minute, that Jason hadn't even question back then why you took pills after pills and chugged cups of coffee.

Jason understands so much better now, why you never got angry—like he had been, when founding out—when Apollo had intercourse with yet another woman.

He understood why you're so prone to sudden collapse of exhaustion and slumbering sleep during the day or in the middle of doing something.

And then he felt a rush of rage through his blood.

You didn't deserve to be treated like this, to be frowned upon down or with that false kindness the other deities treated you with.

You didn't deserve to either called a demonic being or naively dumbling of airy forgetfulness.

Jason hated it. Hated them, the ones above and those below. How dare they to make you feel so unwanted and filling you with seeds of self-hatred and anxiety—when you give nothing but pure love to him and his siblings.

Jason wasn't blind, his father neither—though the man chose to completely ignore it, when you once again had puffy red rimmed eyes—when you had cried in the bathroom during nights and mumbling things to yourself, Jason didn't want to repeat.

Jason decided, this prophecy wasn't worth it to bring you once again pain and remind you of the haunting past.

If it meant to sabotage the quest, he would do. After all his loyalty and love belongs to only you and not to the greater ones above, who hadn't even the slightest fuck to give about their children.

#male reader #x male reader #oneshot #fluff #fanfiction #malereader #percy jackon and the olympians #apollon x male reader #apollo x male reader #percy jackson #pjo

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obae-me · 1 year

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Could you maybe do hc's for Diavolo where Mc is just super casual with him

Like they don't give two shits about his status. They treat him like he's just some guy they play beer pong with every Saturday

Demon Prince can't have a normal day in Devildom because, well, he's a prince? No problem lets just go to the human world

Absolutely I can. Casual Diavolo is one of my favorite types of Diavolo. Please enjoy some of these headcanons.

Homies in Hell

It surprised the both of them when MC didn't seem immediately intimidated by Diavolo. Sure they were confused when they were first summoned down, but despite being in a strange place, being surrounded by strange people who said they were demons, and despite announcing himself as the future King of Demons, the human always looked at Diavolo differently.

Of course, he intended to keep up frequent contact with them to ensure they were settling in properly, and he was always pleased to find that they would typically strike up a conversation with him. It was fascinating! Exciting! They sent 'wyd'! He has no idea what that means! Even when he tries to talk to Lucifer sometimes, it typically leads back to business or responsibility.

They even come over to the castle sometimes as an escape. They come over and tell Diavolo all about the chaos in the House of Lamentation and he always laughs and thinks about how fun it would be to participate. Although he is glad that MC finds it comforting to come to the castle to get some peace. He encourages them to come whenever they wish.

Lucifer and Barbatos had a hard time with the both of them at first. One should not treat royalty so casually! And yet, if it's what the prince wanted...and if it would help MC acclimate... they could let it slide as long as it was kept under wraps. And as long as they both didn't lose sight of their duties. No one expected it would come this far though... The Butler almost had a heart attack the first time MC almost kicked the doors to the castle open and just shouted "Dia! What's up?"

Now, the lines of royalty are completely blurred for MC. Sure, they know he's a prince, but he doesn't feel that way to them. Diavolo is a very good friend.

Diavolo wants to convert the entire Castle into a magical maze for a game of hide and seek? Awesome! Diavolo wants to play a simple card game? They head over with the deck! Barbatos has been making nothing but fancy healthy meals lately? MC brings over some junk food. Diavolo wants to learn more about human culture? MC pulls out some classic memes. You better believe he's going to be talking about it like it's a new hip thing and drive everyone else insane. Maybe they partially do it on purpose.

They enjoy spending time with him this way though. It's very clear to them that no one has ever really treated him this way and it's a shame, because he's actually really fun to be around. He always has a blast with whatever they do and it makes MC really enjoy the simpler things in life.

Sometimes Diavolo will give Barbatos an order that forces him to leave the castle just so MC can come over and do things together. The first night he did this was so MC could come over with groceries and they both spent time in the kitchen celebrating Diavolo's first Taco Tuesday. He was elated.

Sometimes after very long periods of stressful Princely things, MC will fake an emergency and say they need to rush to the human world with Diavolo. They got away clean the first few times, but now everyone knows they're just going up there to have fun. A lot of times they both can be found in a mall eating pretzels and looking to buy things they don't need. (Even though Diavolo could quite literally buy anything he wanted, he finds the concept of a budget quite fun!)

Once, for Diavolo's birthday, they went up to the human world and went to a drive-thu movie and then went bowling right after. They ordered pizza and popcorn and nachos. He got to wear sweatpants for the first time and he had a blast. Although both Lucifer and Barbatos made MC and Diavolo eat strict healthy meals for the next week, but it was worth it. Now Dia tries to wear sweats when he works on paperwork late at night.

Everyone close to MC and Diavolo actually says that MC is the Devil on Diavolo's shoulder since they encourage him to do anything that he wants rather than what he's required to do. It's almost poetic.

Diavolo always gives MC a high five or a fist-bump anytime they see each other now and no one knows how to feel about this.

They've created a sort of bucket-list to get done. It lists a bunch of casual things that Diavolo has always wanted to do. Some of which require: camping in a tent and not a cabin, playing a full game of monopoly, taking cheesy pictures in one of those mall kiosks, playing dodgeball, making a sandcastle, trying one of those restaurant challenges where you either eat something gigantic or super spicy and getting a memento t-shirt, playing Just-Dance, going on a roadtrip with no location in particular, and more. The list is ever ongoing.

MC gifted Diavolo one of those little basketball hoops to keep on the wastebasket in his office for his work and he adores it.

Sometimes they'll just facetime (or whatever the demon equivalent is) while they're doing whatever. Just to talk.

MC's behavior honestly eventually rubs off on everyone which is Diavolo's secret dream. Now if he shows up at the House unannounced, the brothers will wave and just chat casually instead of freaking out that the prince is here. Even Lucifer and Barbatos aren't fully free from the casualness! Something about MC and Diavolo just makes everyone a little less tense. Sometimes Lucifer will wear a hoodie around the house and Barbatos will actually order take-out every so often.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me imagines #obey me headcanons #obey me diavolo

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theghostbunnie · 7 months

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I've been telling anyone who will listen to me for years how I never believed Fiona's universe was just a genderbent version of Finn's bc the personality changes would be too drastic sometimes and I know adventure time is partly written as it goes along but let me have this !

Fiona isn't even a Finn multiverse variant, she's BASED off of Finn. Where as the rest of the multiverse is made by wishes, so I see it kinda like making a clone of a clone, Fiona's universe is "hand made" so to speak. Something I find interesting is, everyone in it, instead of having the deep lore and backstories as the OG universe (the one they were based off of) they seem to get the simplified "what a viewer would assume/all they'd get to know in the first few seasons of watching adventure time."

Fiona and Cake aren't referred to as sisters, even when their universe had magic. When it went without, cake turned into her pet cat. Similar to how as a little kid watching the first season, you just thought Jake was Finn's talking dog.

Fiona didn't get the last name Mertins because in her original magical universe I'm betting the human Island, bio parents' backstory, deep lore about the mushroom war and the vampires just don't exist there. Similar to how when you were watching the first seasons of adventure you don't really question how Finn got there, or all of ooo. It's just boy in magical land.

Also I am willing to die on this hill Gumball/Gary and Princess bubblegum have next to nothing in common. Even in his first appearances in the main series, Gumball was acting snooty and prissy, what young veiwers thought princess bubblegum to be in the earliest seasons. Gumball/Gary in the new series has very few of Princess bubblegum's traits, especially a lack of being a scientist or abrasive bluntness, or a whole list of things. Don't get me wrong I'm not saying he's shallowly written compared to her! Just different, easily embarrassed and a writer instead, infact! All his lil candy ocs.

The character with the biggest differences though?? Cake and Jake. These are two COMPLETELY separate personalities to me.

So to tie this back to my earlier point of this universe being "hand made" and the more intriqure details being more naturally unique and simple than a carbon genderbent copy, I think Prismo put the least amount of work into Cake. (So her as a living creature developed a personality naturally, not that she doesn't have one bc Prismo didn't give her one manually)

Prismo and Jake were friends, I'm sure he's mourned him and misses him. So why would he torture himself/Disrespect someone he knew personally by making a new one? That wouldn't be fun, and that's arguably the whole reason he made Fiona's world. To have fun making something. That's why I think it doesn't have that depth and darkness Finn's world has, it's just "girl in magical land."

#adventure time #adventure time fandom #fionna campbell #fionna and cake #finn the human #finn mertens #finn and jake #prismo the wishmaster #prismo #adventure time fiona and cake

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kit-williams · 3 months

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I need to be folded like a lawn chair while big Black Templar man breeds me for all he's worth.

*cracks knuckles also pauses work on another boy*

Alright ya'll are getting Brother Roland again because he causes the most thirst. If you need to put this into a time line setting this is before Bun in the Oven

SMUT heavy breeding kink

He tried to be good to his Bäckerin but there were some months that his will would faulter. And as Roland would discover putting a baby inside of his Bäckerin wasn't as simple or as easy as he thought. He could smell the biological changes and the fact that something took but then he could smell her body change back. Frustrated he asked her not understanding that the human body was just too strong for it's own good. His Bäckerin soothed him by simply saying "well if my body reabsorbed it this early then there might have been something genetically wrong. A lot can go wrong... I'm certain you can put it in terms of becoming a Black Templar. Sometimes healthy aspirants just die during the process... sometimes what might have been a viable baby just doesn't make it." She would smile at him and just soothe his wounded pride.

She still humored him to make sure that they could both still could conceive and it was simply the roll of the dice. Though Roland knew him being a Space Marine probably wasn't helping him. He finished his prayer and headed to training as he was just stewing in his own mind. His Bäckerin smelt so good this morning... just like the day they first had sex. He couldn't stop himself from pinning her down and bullying his cock inside of her. Watching her whine and whimper under him just sent such a... a thrill up his spine. Chaplin Eckehard was so helpful for Roland during these times but even Roland would watch him stalk after one of his two wives.

Training was hardly helping as it just seemed to get his blood flowing faster to between his legs. His Bäckerin should be out... just a cold shower. He marched back to his quarters after bidding his brothers farewell. His Chaplin had explained that like with battle brothers once he had "imprinted" upon his mortal that he was suddenly acutely aware of her scent biology... he could still look at other mortals and find no desire stirring in his loins but looking at his Bäckerin and occasionally women who looked similar to his Bäckerin could cause the stirring between his loins.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to be where her scent was the strongest. But he was a Space Marine if he could not resist temptations then he was vulnerable. He did not wish to be a weak link when out in combat with his battle brothers. The cold water seemed to hiss against his naturally warm physiology but he could feel himself calming down... coming down from the frenzied high. Till he heard the front door open and his eyes snapped open.

He could hear her... he could smell her... he held his breath so he wouldn't taste her. He could smell the scent of flour, yeast, butter, and eggs against her... probably entangled into the scent of her hair. She was bringing home bread was all... she would leave... he waited those painful seconds as his eyes went over to the bathroom door... she would leave...right?! Oh by the Throne why wasn't she leaving?!

He couldn't face his Bäckerin just yet... "Oh Roland..." his ears picked up even muffled through the door. He twisted the water off and stalked out running his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he could smell her. He watched her pull her fingers out of her unzipped trousers and put them into her mouth licking herself clean.

"Bäckerin," He snapped, "Get on the bed now!"

He watched her jump as her head whipped her head to him seeing him fully naked and he watched her eyes fail to meet his as they were caught between his legs looking at the angry throbbing thing. His own eyes were no longer the soft honey brown but were black with how he looked at her with nothing but a predatory desire. But when she didn't move suddenly she was face first into a burly chest.

"R-Roland?! W-what"

"Less words." He felt himself salivating as he unabashedly inhaled her scent, "I'm going to fuck a baby into you!" He snarled as he threw her onto the bed as he punched a code into a terminal. Only the Chaplin could contact him or get in during this time. When he looked over at his Bäckerin he was pleased that she had stripped naked.

She flinched in unconscious fear as suddenly he was looming over her. She was still a mortal at the end of the day and he was a lethal weapon. As much as he wanted to pin her under him and thrust with reckless abandon, as her scent was coaxing him to do, he rolled over laying on his back. "Work yourself on. Please." He hissed giving her this one concession.

Lucky for him she was already so wet. He let out a guttural hiss from the back of his throat as her hips began to roll and bounce her way down his cock. "Du riechst so gut." He groaned arching and pushing himself into her more. She felt so full and whimpered as he gave her till she started to move.

She found herself on her back quickly as his hips began to piston in their barely restrained pattern. He really shouldn't indulge himself during these times of the month... but it was addictive to smell her fertile scent just mingling with his own when he fills her with his sperm. His drool splashes on her breasts as he is lost in his fantasy. Her breathy moans filling the room just as much as the wet squelch and slap of his hips against hers. The way his balls met her skin, the feeling of her feet against his chest and shoulders... oh he knew when he was bad she would press them against his neck to try and break him out of whatever trance he was in.

He pressed her down causing her moans to increase an octave as she was utterly cock drunk slurring his name as the bed creaked and rocked with the rhythm his hips had set. He sometimes wished his Bäckerin could handle him more... but he wouldn't give her up for anything. He could feel the way she clenched around him and the way she groaned in pleasure as he fucked through her orgasm simultaneously extending it but also building up the next one.

"So gut." He salivated on her shoulder before sucking a hickey into her skin. It didn't take him very long to get her to orgasm again but when she did he bottomed out snarling, "Meine Bäckerin, meine... meine... meine." All gutteral sounded and coming from deep within his chest and throat as he stilled his hips just rolling them as he flooded her insides. He knelt there just panting softly as he let her legs go and watch them just spread wide and she rested her feet on his thighs.

"Um... hi to you too?" She spoke softly.

"You're ovulating." Roland said as if it was completely obvious as to why he dragged her to bed, "I wasn't expecting you home."

"I was just going to leave some bread and... yeah neither was I expecting you." She moaned softly as he had softened and pulled out. He cocked his head to the side as he felt some pride and sexual satisfaction seeing at how wide open he would leave her. Pushing some of the oozing cum back into her quivering cunt. She moaned softly as he would do so. She wasn't staying as open as long any more. "Roland?"

"Hmm?" He finally looked up at his Bäckerin.

"Get my laptop I'm not going to be moving for a bit. Not with... that."

He just grinned going to get her some water and her device. He would pepper her with kisses and his tender affection till he had to return to his duties. But he was happy to return to them with a clear head even though it meant any plans his Bäckerin had were ruined.

Though he was certain she hardly minded.

#tw: smut #tw: sex #warhammer 40k #Brother Roland #Bäckerin #smut #Black Templar #Space Marine x reader #x reader #is this x reader still?#Space Marine #Black Templar x reader #Does Roland count as a Yandere still?#tw: breeding

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devildomwriter · 6 months

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Satan’s Halloween Duty

Every Halloween night Satan has an important duty to fulfill and the unfortunate few who provoke him will learn why he is the demon of wrath. Hopefully this year no one is stupid enough to try and sacrifice a cat.

1.5K words

CW: Violence, cursing, animal sacrifice, decapitation, knives, evil people getting what’s coming to them

When he wasn’t being forced to attend Diavolo’s luxurious birthday parties, Satan had more urgent business on Halloween night.

All October Satan had his eyes trained on the human world, one story after another appeared in the news—another black cat mutilated, strung up, or sacrificed—it made his blood boil.

Halloween night was when most cats fell victim to disillusioned humans trying to gain favor from demons. Cats weren’t the only victims, but they mattered most to Satan. He found it unfathomable how someone could so brutally harm such a wonderful, elusive, and adorable creature.

Every Halloween night, Satan lived up to his legends in the eyes of humans—a cruel and murderous being of hell. But this is only what they made him. He had no choice, every time he sensed someone attempt a summoning ritual he cleared his mind and focused on it, allowing him to see the humans from above. He never responded, not unless he found what he was looking for—a cat killer.

With all the wrath of hell, green flames appear around the group of foolish humans. Some laugh, some gasp, some freeze in fear, but most don’t expect what happens next—brutal, agonizing, drawn-out death.

Sometimes Satan has the clarity to question them first, maybe the cat was already dead, a beloved pet perhaps. But his silver tongue gets the truth out every time. They’re just murderers, plain and simple. Satan doesn’t detest human murderers, however…

That Halloween night was no different from the last much to his dismay. It didn’t seem to matter how many humans he punished, they didn’t seem to get the memo. Then again he didn’t leave anyone alive to warn the others, but by doing this he could weed everyone out faster. Why should they be warned? If they have the capacity to kill a cat they should simply die without time to rethink their choices.

Satan shivered as he felt the magic of a summoning ritual. Using his influence as a lord of the Devildom, he’d forbidden lesser demons to answer summoning and required noble demons to report to him if they’d observed any wrongdoing, this is how he normally got to the humans first.

He rolled his eyes and cleared his mind, taking deep breaths to focus on the first summoning of the night.

“Do you really think this’ll work?” The girl asked her friends in a hushed voice.

They’d gathered deep in the forest near town. The five of them fully believed in God and the devil, and they believed it was better to make friends with the dark. The dark didn’t require chaste, conservative devotion, the kind many couldn’t commit to. They’d rather sell their souls for money and fame. They wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences until they died and many didn’t realize selling their souls meant eternal torture, not erasure.

That October each of them had decided they’d go through with the ritual they’d seen online. It was obscure and could only be found in deep corners of the internet. It was a ritual to summon a demon to do their bidding—each would be granted a wish—the bigger the ask, the bigger the sacrifice. Unwilling to sacrifice a human, especially one so close to them, they decided on simpler wishes. Better grades in college, better luck in their dating life, the usual things.

Loud hisses could be heard from the black cat struggling under the fist of the largest man in the group, pinning the cat to the ground by its throat.

The tattooed girl looked away, not wanting to witness the animal’s pain but not doing anything to stop it.

“Brittany, shut up. Of course, it’s gonna work,” the slim man spat and Brittany rolled her eyes and handed him the knife.

“Guys just get it over with!” The tattooed girl whined and the large man laughed at her.

“It’s just a fucking cat, Molly.”

The other men laughed with him, Brittany rolled her eyes again and nudged the large man, “Matt come on, we don’t have all night.”

Matt huffed and nodded his head to the slim man who clutched the knife and smiled. He stepped on the cat and Matt let go allowing the man to stab the cat in the back.

It let out a screech that didn’t sound natural and they began to laugh.

The cat died in agony, in shock at what had happened to it, broken and full of stab wounds, it was then kicked aside and hit a tree as the friends had collected enough of its blood.

That’s when they began to chant and Satan felt the shiver down his spine.

The first ritual of the night and he’d already found scum. The earth around Satan shook from the might of his anger and his brothers glanced his way and gave him ample space as Satan answered the call and allowed the humans to summon him.

Appearing as green fire, Satan appeared before the shocked friends.

“Holy shit!” The slim man laughed in shock. Molly screamed in horror, not believing the ritual would work and the others grinned but froze in awe.

“Fuck…holy fuck…” Matt muttered. “Joey, where the fuck did you find this spell?” He asked the slim man but his eyes widened as he felt fire around his neck.

Joey, Molly, Brittany, and their quieter friend, Kyle, stared in shock.

“What?” Matt tried to say more but everything blurred and instantly he was gone, his head slowly fell from his neck and Molly let out a blood-curdling scream.

Instantly Molly tried to run but was unsuccessful. Satan wouldn’t accept that, there would be no mercy for anyone remotely responsible for a cat’s brutal death.

Satan made it so that Molly couldn’t flee, with a motion of his hands, Molly’s feet were cleanly severed from her ankles and she fell on her face, moaning in pain, not yet realizing he feet were gone.

Brittany stood up quickly and vomited. “Wh-Why!?” She gasped.

Satan was in no mood to answer. He glared at her and she felt a shock of electrifying pain surge through her body and she let out a gargled scream. She convulsed on the forest floor and blood began leaking from the corners of her mouth.

“Oh my God!” Joey cried in horror as his girlfriend’s eyes rolled back in her head.

Kyle watched everything without reacting and met Satan’s eyes through the bright green flames. He spoke plainly, loud enough that Joey heard him over the screams of his friends.

“I offer their souls to you,” he said and set down the butcher’s knife that had been hidden in his hoodie pocket.

“Kyle, what the fuck! You sick fuck! You planned this, didn’t you? You fucking—“ Satan had heard enough and snapped his fingers. Joey’s tongue was pulled by an invisible force from Joey’s mouth slow enough to draw out as much pain as possible.

Kyle grinned wickedly, believing he was safe.

“Your soul is already mine,” Satan growled in his deepest demonic voice. Kyle, who hadn’t reacted until now turned pale and a cold sweat dripped down his temples.

“Huh—“ was all he managed to say before Satan’s magic pinned him to a tree and set it ablaze. He minimized the amount of smoke so Kyle wouldn’t die of suffocation too soon to experience the true agony of his flesh melting and falling from his bones.

Joey was still writhing and hyperventilating, clinging to Brittany. Satan nodded his head and with that, Brittany’s blood completely left her body fountaining from her mouth, raining down blood on the two survivors.

“What the fuck! What the fuck!” Molly screamed before her jaw was pulled from her head and her tongue hung loose where the mouth should’ve been. She collapsed in terror as she began to die slowly, becoming colder as her body grew wet from the blood spilling out of her.

That just left Joey. Satan was angriest with him. Joey had been the one to hold the knife and stab the cat. Joey had been the one to break the cat’s bones. Joey had been the one to kick the cat’s mutilated body aside.

“You,” Satan spoke. Joey, without a tongue, could not answer. He could only stare up in horror, knowing what awaited him was worse than death.

“What you’ve done to that cat you will receive tenfold. Once your pathetic life has ended your soul will receive the same punishment in the deepest layer of hell.”

Satan held true to his promise.

There was nothing left of Joey when he was done but chunks of his corpse splattered around the woods. In Satan’s palm was the dim light of the five souls he’d so kindly been offered, only he could hear their agonized screams as their souls received torture worse than he’d inflicted and it would remain that way for all of existence.

As Satan finally took a deep breath he felt a shiver run up his spine and grimaced. “Great, another one…” and he vanished to observe the next group. Hopefully, they weren’t stupid enough to sacrifice a cat lest they learn why Satan is the demon of wrath.

#obey me drabble #obey me short story #obey me satan #omswd #obey me shall we date Satan #obey me diavolo #obey me headcanons #omswd Satan #obey me satan story #obey me story

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shalotttower · 4 months

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Pholcus phalangioides

Title: Pholcus phalangioides

Fandom: The Collector (2009). Can be read as an original inspired by the source, because I took some creative liberties.

Summary: There's a spider in your bathroom, it lives under the mirror cabinet and you a) don't want to kill it, and b) are too scared to touch it, so now you can either keep giving it one side eye after another, or ask your neighbour for help.

Word count: 4000+

Characters: Asa Emory x Reader

Notes: yandere Asa, spiders and insects descriptions, stalking, voyeurism of sort - Asa watches Reader without her realizing it, kidnapping, vague hinting on body horror, non-con touching, Reader is socially awkward. Asa is not 100% in-movie-character Asa (he actually talks lol), a huge chunk of him is based on my headcanons.

You have this problem - a spider problem, to be precise. Not that it's too big of a deal, but...it also is.

Spiders are generally okay.

They eat unwanted guests, like flies and mosquitos or even other spiders. Make cool webs, which is probably one of the most complicated forms of art, not to mention a mathematical pattern to it - a combination of radial and circular symmetry. The golden ratio in nature.

In general they're important for keeping a backyard ecosystem nice and intact.

But.

But there is a spider in your bathroom, right under the sink cabinet, with thin legs, a long body, and of course - eyes. Quiet, kept to itself, really chill spider who doesn't move much except to crawl around a little and sometimes look at you when it catches you looking.

It probably lived in hiding somewhere, before deciding that dark spaces weren't up to its standards anymore and making an appearance. You haven't swatted it away, caught it, struck it with a paper - mostly because you're not good at killing living creatures, and secondly because the spider isn't doing any harm, just observing your every step, and generally being present.

When you check your makeup bag, it watches. When you brush your teeth, it watches. When you close the cabinet door it wiggles and your heart goes "ee" as if someone shocked it with a static charge. This yellowish-brown witness of your everyday activities, silently approving and judging, lately makes you feel like a nuisance in your own bathroom. You desperately wish there was a way to make it move to another corner. A less centralized one, less straight in your face. Yet the thought of touching it makes you cringe inwardly; your mind conjures images of different scenarios involving spider-related unpleasantries - accidentally squashing it, or getting bitten and dying a slow, miserable death.

It's gotta go.

Because the more you see it, the more your brain tries to assign it human features. And the longer it stares, the bigger the chance it might grow a pair of lips to say "get out of my bathroom".

The thought comes to you in the morning while setting a breakfast plate on the kitchen counter. The house is quiet, all windows are open and you stare through one of them at your neighbour's fence. You rarely see him, though the parked car is always a giveaway of his presence. Emory, that's what the mailbox says, and he has a neat garden, not an extravagant type, but everything is carefully trimmed and arranged into simple patterns.

There's even a stone bench by a small tree. Does it actually get used on sunny days? Probably no. He seems like a loner, from what you've seen so far: tall and pale, with wire-rimmed glasses and still grey eyes. Very focused and put together, a turtleneck and dark trousers kind of Mister. Never waving when passing by, though he does glance sometimes - sharp and attentive.

Once you caught him leaning over a bush with back straight and head hanging low. Your stomach gave this funny, nervous twitch, like when a stranger tries to start a conversation in public. He looked your way and then resumed whatever he was doing.

"Whatever" appeared to be something small, sharp limbs and a shiny body. It looked like a beetle, stretched to an absurd degree, and the way he held that thing felt strangely intimate. The same way you'd cradle a baby animal in your hands, rubbing its forehead with a fingertip. Emory put it in a plastic box, sealed it, and went into his house, not sparing you another glance.

This particular memory - of long fingers and a careful grasp - is what makes you think that maybe, possibly, theoretically, he could handle one pesky spider for you. You've seen him with insects a couple of times after, no doubt Mr. Emory is one of those who glue bugs to display boards. The creepy friend in the bathroom must be right up his alley then.

Five minutes later the two of you are staring at each other in awkward silence. Bothering barely acquainted neighbours isn't usually high on your list of priorities, especially if said neighbours look like they prefer being alone. You know it's odd, you know it probably crosses some boundaries, yet here you are.

With a crease on his brow and a tight mouth, Emory isn't thrilled at this sudden visit. Maybe he was in the middle of something, or is just uncomfortable with people invading his space. In any case, you clear your throat.

"Good morning. I live in the house across the road. The white porch? With-"

"I know," it's a dry reply. Not rude, more matter-of-factly; his eyes are fixed on you with a hint of unsettling peculiarity which makes you shift from one foot to the other.

He's not pest control, you think. Or obligated to help in any way. Emory can tell you to kindly fuck off right now and close the door, why did you even come here? It's stupid and intrusive. You're almost ready to take it all back and go home, pretend like nothing happened and just deal with that spider yourself, when he speaks again.

"What do you need?"

He has a quiet voice, a very even direct tone that doesn't encourage small talk, but prompts answers. Now and without pointless filling.

"I know how it's going to sound," you start, cringing inside, "and apologize in advance for bothering you, but I had an impression you collect...bugs."

"Insects. Arachnids."

"Right. So I was thinking if you'd mind removing a spider from my bathroom. I don't want to kill it, but I can't- I can't touch it."

His gaze slowly shifts from your face to the house behind you. As if Emory has an x-ray vision, or a complete mental map of your household layout. Ha, this would be ridiculous. There's no apparent disapproval in his pale face, but something else, a different kind of assessment. Evaluation of how much it is worth spending time on someone with an overgrown lawn? His eyes return back and you feel pinned down.

The longer he stays silent, the more you wish for the ground to open and swallow you whole.

"If you can't I totally understand-"

"What kind of spider?"

It's your turn to stare. How are you supposed to know, you've never studied spider biology. It looks like any other common variety, except creepier because it refuses to leave its spot and stay in the sewer where it belongs. "I...light-brownish, with long legs. Thin? Slender," there's more you could add but any further description will probably make you sound like a total dunce who can't recognize basic arachnids. "Kind of big."

You expect a 'sure', maybe 'I'll be there shortly' or 'no'. What you get is Emory moving past you and walking up your front porch. The scent of laundry detergent and soap, very clean, hits your nose before you rush to open the door.

"Uhm. Second floor," you explain, awkwardly shuffling after him. For the first time since the day you moved in, you worry about what someone might see inside the house. As far as clutter goes, your place is acceptable, perhaps a few forgotten cups around and yesterday's sweater thrown on a couch. Surely, it's not too bad.

Emory, however, doesn't seem interested in the surroundings. The staircase doesn't even creak under his weight, despite the house being around a century old. He steps over the little border which always makes you trip if you walk too fast, like it's not there. Like the corner you often bump your hip into doesn't exist either. He navigates your home with effortless precision, an inward kind of certainty that makes your eyebrows rise. Maybe...the houses on your street have the same blueprint.

Either way, he walks into your bathroom without hesitation, turning on the light. You hover by the doorway, unsure: should you offer something to drink, ask him if he needs anything else or just step away and leave him to do his thing?

The spider is there, hiding under the cabinet, when Emory leans over to observe it. He's probably seen many different specimens, you think, and this isn't interesting at all compared to the ones who have an intricate design or unique behavior.

"She's a part of the Pholcidae family," Emory says suddenly. Just like that there's 'she', instead of 'it', and the spider twitches and shifts. "Daddy long-legs. Harmless."

He puts his palm up close to its back. At first, it seems startled, but after a moment slowly calms down, and moves a leg - left then right - getting familiar with his hand.

"Docile creatures," Emory continues, while the spider walks along the edge of his palm. No running around, no random leaps, stick-like limbs touch and probe him with curiosity, much like you'd study something new. "They stay in the dark, hide in the corners while feasting on smaller things. Your intruder is a useful tenant."

It makes you feel slightly nauseous, how nonchalant he is about holding something that prompts recoil on instinct.

"Do you want to hold her?" Emory turns to you and there's a faint, strange smile on his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes and makes him look like an alien who tries to mimic human expressions based only on observation. His pupils are so dark that you can barely tell the difference between the irises and the rest. They seem bottomless, absorbing all light, but reflecting none in return. You take one step backwards, shaking your head.

"I'll pass."

He keeps staring at you for what feels like forever before returning his attention to the spider crawling on his skin. Emory reaches into his back pocket for a small container.

"Are you not setting her outside?" You ask. "She...she doesn't look like, uh, a rare species."

Not that you're an expert.

"No," Emory closes the lid with a quiet click. "She isn't one. But I'm going to keep her."

And he does. The little captive spider rests at the very bottom of a plastic case when you send the man on his way and thank him for the help. Emory accepts it with a nod, no further words, and then there's only his back when he leaves. The morning air rushes in, crisp and fresh, smelling like grass, tree leaves and soil.

It feels like you blink, and three days go by. You still keep an eye on the bathroom cabinet by some sort of habit, however there's nothing out of the ordinary lurking there, no creepy critters and definitely no thin legs scattering in multiple directions. All is well, now you can brush your teeth, take care of business and even lean close without fear something might fall on your head.

It's just a spider. You googled it later, and how common it is around the continents should be a bit ridiculous. Keeping it might equal to going on a beach and picking the most unremarkable pebble you see; Emory certainly could find hundreds more Daddy long-legs wherever he pleased - parks, gardens or forests.

So...why?

The question gnaws at you, together with that smile and cold grey eyes hidden behind glasses' frames. The weirdest part wasn't the expression, it was how you couldn't read it. Despite the obvious display of human emotion, however misplaced and alien, it failed to reveal anything. The smile was there, and yet nothing broke through it, not amusement, nor politeness - or any kind of feeling whatsoever.

Your neighbour is odd.

Not necessarily scary, though there's a sense of mystery surrounding him, it makes you feel like standing next to an iceberg and only seeing its tip. Or you've just read far too many psychological thrillers and your imagination likes to conjure up the wildest scenarios, trying to turn each and every thing into something sinister.

Maybe you should just chill and get some tea, and stop being so dramatic about a guy who came over and politely removed a spider for you.

They're not a unique species. Not even remotely uncommon.

He taps the container gently with his index finger, making the spider move back and forth. She doesn't have venom, no poisonous chemicals to injure and kill. Hiding in abandoned corners she does, patient and careful, waiting to catch the wrong fly.

You're just like her. Nothing exciting. Not unique.

Your movement patterns are similar, concealed in a different package you're still predictable: getting home from work, cooking dinner, watching TV shows. Everyday routines.

Fear is a part of your nature. Awkwardness which comes with socializing: you shuffle when uncomfortable, avoid prolonged eye contact and don't like confrontation, he noticed this right away. A quiet type, keeping mostly to yourself unless you need something urgently; and then you rush, like a scared Daddy long legs. There's this shiftiness, an inner desire to be less visible, but also a yearning for recognition because the lack of it hurts. And he saw all those small things, catalogued them one by one, as you moved into his street and became a constant presence.

Asa has never thought about keeping something - someone - so mundane before. Never. He likes rare things, spectacular, and those collected in the basement, they all are, especially when he's finished with them. They're extraordinary, displayed under glass cases and preserved for eternity.

He doesn't collect common species. Daddy long-legs are abundant everywhere around him.

But.

There's the way you linger by the kitchen window during the morning routine, slowly sipping hot coffee. When your lips purse and eyes lose focus for a moment. Or how the corners of them wrinkle sometimes when you have a genuine, amused laugh. It's something like warmth. There's no label for the feeling - positive, negative or neutral, it just is, like one single, meaningless element in an ecosystem.

He shouldn't want someone so average.

And yet Asa watches from the corner of your living room, crouched on the floor by a plant.

You don't hear him, too invested in your personal bubble. Well, he had enough time to polish his craft and figure out how soundless he can be when moving through spaces, how much weight he needs to place onto soles to avoid creaking wood and floorboards.

It's interesting to see you interact with your environment, unaware of being watched. There's an invisible pattern behind each action, even if you think everything is randomized. The web you wove around yourself is cozy, and Asa follows its threads while you check the phone and frown at whatever notification pops up. He is considering. Contemplating this impulsive desire he has yet to identify.

Would it be worth it? Keeping you. Adding you to the collection and seeing what comes out of it, how far his usual approach might take him with you in the same conditions. You're just a face with features. So...ordinary. He wants to pick you apart and look inside to make sure it's not some strange sort of mimicry, camouflage of a different nature hiding something else entirely.

There's this vague idea how those features may feel when touched. He can recall them accurately, even when you've never stood too close. Asa watches quietly from his hiding place, memorizing a displeased mumble and then a frustrated gesture.

You seem so alive.

Those below who are frozen in time now were too, before Asa decided to give them a purpose and make something special and worthy of his attention. They were alive like you, but now they're something better.

What purpose you have remains to be seen.

Asa decides then.

A plain trunk is nestled in the corner behind a coat hanger, no fancy latch or keyhole needed, only an ordinary padlock. You'll fit in nicely, squeezed in the cramped space, it won't be the most comfortable experience, but it's not for long and then...then he can show you the room where others stayed before, and where you'll be next.

Asa looks around one last time: the front door is locked, blinds down, lights off - you get up from the couch and head upstairs, right on the dot. Your house is easy to navigate despite the darkness; Asa knows his way around it, having been here already more than once. A step after a step he follows the soft padding of your bare feet, and when the steps halt, he pulls out a cloth. It's a heavy kind of pleasure to be able to stand right behind and admire your nape, there's a strange sort of vulnerability to it.

Something raw and very exposed.

It takes only a few movements, he catches your yelp into one of his hands and holds it clasped tightly as you thrash. Your nails dig into the fabric of his turtleneck but fail to leave any marks. He's never tired of it, the initial fear of his specimens realizing that their secure habitats are ruined. He doesn't mind this fight for survival.

"Shh," Asa breathes into your ear. "Shh."

The struggle doesn't last long - you're not a fighter - and when your body goes limp, he picks you up. Your perfume is surprisingly light, a very sweet and pleasant aroma, not overwhelming at all like he'd expect it to be.

It's nice.

He puts you in the trunk, a boxy space barely big enough to fit you curled on the side, it's going to take around thirty minutes to reach the hotel and another three to put you in the right cell. You'll sleep the rest of the journey, which is fortunate for everyone. It's always easier to deal with a specimen if they're resting.

The lock clicks softly - it's time to go home.

Something runs down your cheek - a drop, a bead of sweat, a touch - and you blink, trying to make sense of it. The surroundings are unfamiliar, blurry shapes with undefined outlines that stretch and wobble before your eyes. Your jaw hurts, clenched so hard that teeth grind together, and it takes a conscious effort to relax.

Where...what?

The living room, a TV program, a soundless whisper that froze the hairs at your nape, then someone was behind you. You remember a sickly sweet smell, and after that nothing but a haze and the dark, and the sensation of being squeezed into a shape. Your legs feel numb, arms too, like you spent hours immobile in one position. Slowly the world sharpens back into focus, but instead of relief there's only dread.

You're in a room.

No bigger than a regular bathroom and void of any furniture beside a cot-like bed, a toilet in the corner and a sink. The walls are a bluish-gray with thin cracks, tiny fissures that create uneven lines from the ceiling all the way down to the floor.

And there's a man, observing you quietly through the thick glass.

You don't notice him immediately, too busy assessing your new location, and when you do the air feels heavier, difficult to move past your throat. He's wearing a mask. Black rubber or something, covering everything except his eyes. He presses two palms against the barrier separating you, the silence stretches into an eternity.

'Who are you? What do you want?' - these are kind of questions you should be asking, but they don't come out. You remain glued to the spot, counting the passing seconds by their painful tick-tock-tick-tocks. One minute turns into two, and he...just stares without moving a muscle in a beyond unnerving manner. Your gaze dips lower to check his clothes, perhaps find a pattern to identify this person later.

There's none. Everything is plain black, like a uniform made to be invisible - turtleneck, pants, even gloves and boots.

It seems that your silence somehow pleases him, because a few moments later he leaves without looking back.

You don't know how much time passes; there's not a window around, only a bare, stark bulb, yellowish in its brightness and casting unpleasant shadows all over the floor. Not a single sound. Traffic, voices of distant passersby or birds - all is absent and doesn't provide even a bit of understanding where the hell you are.

In the end, you...sit down on the bed and wait, because what else is there? Everything is eerily silent and very, very uncomfortable: this emptiness, the absence of noise, the endless ticking of an invisible clock. It's difficult not to cry, but you try your best, somehow it feels important to remain composed. There has to be a reason behind this. There must be one, and you repeat it over and over, like a mantra to soothe the nerves and present your mind with some semblance of logic: once you figure out what's going on, you'll figure out how to get out as well.

Pulling loose threads from your sleeve is poor entertainment, if anything, the strain of boredom and unease gradually grows into anxiety so sharp that you almost miss the sound of approaching footsteps.

He's back again, the masked stranger who stands in the doorway with hands clasped behind his back. A pair of light grey eyes is a splash of different color, but they are blank. They watch with distant curiosity of an animal trainer monitoring a newborn cub. The comparison makes something ugly squirm inside you. A part of you wants to make a run for it, the other keeps yelling that it would be immensely stupid.

One, two, three, four steps he takes into your cell. Your back meets the wall, the chill coming from its solid surface cuts right through the layers of clothing. Five, six. He stops only when there's less than arm's reach between you, then leans to brush away loose strands of hair sticking to your temples. Your stomach goes taut. This scent. Laundry detergent mixed with soap. The turtleneck, grey eyes, very collected kind of Mister.

A sickly shiver of revulsion shoots down your spine, making you curl tighter into a ball. Emory cups your jaw with both hands - they're cold even through the gloves material. This is too close, an unwanted and unpleasant violation of boundaries, and yet he continues to examine your face, like you're some sort of an object he can handle however he pleases.

Your cheek gets a light pat. Any theories about his identity stay unvoiced, mostly because you fear the reaction they might prompt. Something tells you that screaming is a bad idea too. 'Be quiet,' an insistent whisper says deep inside your skull, 'be still.'

His thumbs press to the corners of your mouth. "Open," he orders, and you can't not, even though the whole thing sounds and feels bizarre. "Wider."

There's a quiet click. A flashlight, of those small ones you can easily hold in one hand, shines right into your eyes, making them water from the unexpected brightness. "Don't bite or I'll remove all of your teeth."

It's a simple threat, delivered with such a calm tone, there's no need for yelling when words are that clear and straightforward.

He inspects your mouth, the edges of teeth and gums, your inner cheeks, and you let him, clenching your fists. There's not much you can do, at least that's what you keep telling yourself to ease the heavy, sinking feeling of powerlessness. Your mind chants 'too close' on a loop, urging to wiggle away; you stay. It's unclear what exactly he's looking for - dental or oral diseases, a sore throat, cavities, or the lack of them?

It lasts forever until he straightens back up and puts the light away.

"Good," Emory states. There's another pat to your head before he turns around to leave. "No biting."

The door panel slides with a soft hum, locking shut. And the silence, and the waiting, and the mind numbing monotony is back again.

#shalott fanfiction #yandere #the collector #the collector (2009)#asa emory #asa emory x reader #slasher fanfiction #slashers

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allysunny · 10 months

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Holo Heart | Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader

Synopsys: Haunted by the loss of his wife, Miguel decides to take matters into his own hands, and grant himself the second chance he's been wishing for.

Words: 7.7k

Warnings: Angst, sad Miguel, mentions of blood, character death, suggestive themes (just a smidge, really), do mention if I've missed anything!

A/N: Hey guys! So, I've been mostly a reader in here, but the other day I was doing dishes and this idea sort of popped in my head, and I thought about sharing it with all of you! English is not my first language so I'd like to apologize in advance for any mistakes. I also have not spoken Spanish in a few years, so, once again, I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes.

I haven't written in a while, and this is my first tumblr fic, so please be gentle! But I'd love to read your thoughts and criticism in the comments :) I also tried to make this super inclusive, so aside from the reader being a woman, there's no specifications of hair, skin tone, ethnicity, etc. I hope you like it!

Miguel has always prided himself in being a smart man, one who always made sure to achieve his goals, and do it efficiently.

He created the Spider Society, made sure the canon was intact, and carried the weight of the world in his shoulders. It was hard, but he made it work. In fact, he had to. He’d already lost so much; he couldn’t afford to lose more.

Which was why he couldn’t take risks. Every task was carefully calculated, every mission was deliberately planned, every meeting brief and straight to the point. The more time he could spend inside his office, planning, scheming, strategizing, making sure everything went exactly according to plan, the better.

But unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple, and human nature had other plans for him.

All those late nights working all by himself with no one other than Lyla and at least half a dozen coffee cups beside him were taking a toll on his mental health. As much as Miguel enjoyed spending time by himself (it was impossible to spend time in the company of other Spider-People for more than a few minutes before the need to excuse himself and sigh became too strong. Do not let him get started on Peter B. Parker. Please.), he was starting to miss human interaction more and more.

But not just any human interaction.

Looking over at his watch, Miguel registered the glowing light that alerted him of his loneliness once again. 03:47 am. Working late until exhaustion had become a frequent occurrence after the accident. It was his own way of dealing with the pain, with all the grief. It made him forget, and the everlasting numbness in his chest heart go away, if only for a few hours.

Miguel sighed, running a hand through his face. His muscles felt tight, the knots in his back and shoulders ever so present. He slumped back in his chair and leaned his hair back, taking all of the exhaustion in.

“You okay boss?” Lyla asked, flickering right beside his head. The AI could get on his nerves more often than not, but Miguel was glad it seemed to care about him. Well, sure, he’d programmed it that way, but occasionally even he needed a small check-up. It kept him sane.

“Yeah, sure,” His voice was just above a whisper, and yet it was still as commanding and assertive as always. “I think I’m done for the day.”

“Oh wow, you think? They don’t call you a genius for nothing!” Miguel winced at the perkiness of her voice. Sometimes he forgot tiring Lyla out wasn’t a possibility. She was an AI and therefore had energy to spare. He waved her off quickly, and with a small salute, she flickered away, leaving Miguel alone with his thoughts once again.

After a few quiet moments, he turned to the black screens in front of him.

“I shouldn’t…” Was the thought that crossed his mind. He knew it was wrong. He knew what happened whenever he turned those screens on, when he turned them on with the purpose of reliving old memories.

But before he could even acknowledge what he’d done, the whole lab was engulfed in bright lights, accompanied by soft surrounding background noise.

Defeated, he looked up at them, eyes filled with something between longing and adoration, a mix reserved for only one person.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Nueva York, look who it is!” Although the phone’s camera was turned to him, it was your voice making itself heard. The voice he adored so much, the only voice he could stand to hear for hours on end, the voice he would give anything to listen to once again.

The Miguel in the video was dressed in a fine black suit, an emerald handkerchief adorning his breast pocket. His hair was neatly styled back, allowing for his “godly sculpted cheekbones” (your words, not his) to be shown in all its glory. He was standing inside your old bedroom, fixing his attire in front of a wall length mirror.

“Cariño, won’t you turn that off?” He grumbled softly, turning to face the camera. Although his voice had a tinge of annoyance to it, his lips were quick to betray him, curling up in a soft smile.

Your angelic chuckle boomed through the room, and Miguel’s breath hitched.

There you were.

Draped in a light-coloured green silk dressed that perfectly flattered your figure, hugging you in all the right places, your hair carefully brushed to the side. You smiled, positioning the phone on top of your vanity, making sure it wouldn’t fall. Once you were sure of its security, you made your way to him, tilting your head to the side.

“It’s not my fault my husband is so devilishly handsome!” Your hand reached out to hold his arm, nudging him towards the phone’s periphery. He rolled his eyes, pretending to be tired of your antics, but his arm snaked around your waist instinctively, giving it a gentle tug. A reminder that he was there with you. No matter what, he would always be there.

No matter what.

“Don’t you look dashing, Mr. O’Hara?” Your smile. Miguel would give anything to see it in person again. He’d do anything to have you smile at him like you always did one more time. Like he was the only person that existed, that mattered. Your smile had always been capable of lighting up a whole room. In fact, you were capable of that, all by yourself. Your kindness, your optimism, your drive and ambition. People were naturally drawn to you – the fact you were nothing short of stunning was only a bonus. In fact, you had made Miguel experience what jealousy felt like for the first time. The ugly feeling had gnawed and gnawed at him, eating him up from the inside every time a cheeky coworker got too close for comfort, complimenting your “beautiful eyes”, or bold friends pulled you close by the waist, trying all sorts of plans to get their hands on you.

But you’d never really needed him to call him out. You could take care of yourself just fine, and that’s one of the things Miguel most loved about you. Sure, he relished in the feeling of protecting you. Of putting his arms around your figure and engulfing you in his presence, his hold being the only place no harm could ever even get a glimpse of you. But he couldn’t help the smirk that crawled up his face whenever you rejected any other men’s advances, swatting their hands off you and giving them dead stares.

The him on the screen chuckled, pressing you close against him, his frame towering over you. He bent down slightly, nuzzling his face against your hair. Another gesture he did without thinking – it was something that brought him peace. Your scent felt like home, the sweet aroma of your favourite shampoo bringing him instant relief.

“Si alguien aqui es diabolicamente hermosa, eres tú, Mrs. O’Hara.” Screen-Miguel brought his lips to your ear, and the way your whole body shuddered made him chuckle. That, and the way your cheeks took on a soft glow. “Now, what is all this?” He glanced at the camera once again, quirking up an eyebrow.

“You know my Spanish isn’t that good yet…” The pout on your lips was just too adorable – it took Miguel (screen one or not) all his strength not to whisk you in his arms and capture your lips with his. “Anyways, just wanted to capture this moment.” You shrug, hands wandering around to pinch his side. Your husband’s squeal would have been unnoticeable by anyone else – but not you. Not you, whom he showed his softer side to, not you, whom he showered with love and tenderness, whose ground he worshipped. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, you know.” One would almost miss the way your voice cracked, but a slight waver was enough for Miguel and his screen counterpart to frown.

“I know… I’m sorry corazón. I really am…” Screen-Miguel turned you towards him, brushing the hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. Staring into your eyes, Miguel could swear you had this magical ability to make him lose all track of time. In fact, he could swear that was true in about everything you did. When you got dressed in the morning, when you cooked his favourite empanadas, when you told him off whenever he was too hard on himself or others around him, when you cried out his name so nicely, his lips on your neck-

“But today’s all about you, alright? I’ll make up for it. I promise.” His lips brushed your temple, not only a promise to you, but himself. His work in the Spider Society had been piling up. Anomalies on top of anomalies, mistakes after mistakes, and only himself to take care of everything. He’d left you waiting for him more than once, and more than once he’d found you asleep by the time he got back. It hurt him deeply every time it happened. In fact, the last time it happened, your pillow had tear stains on him.

To say such sight had broken his heart was an understatement.

“Technically today’s about the bride…” A soft chuckle from you.

“You were my bride once.” A wink from him.

“I haven’t been a bride in a long time.”

“You’ll always be my beautiful bride.” And with this, Miguel brought you even closer, one hand on your waist, the other on your cheek. His breath fanned your cheek and suddenly, his lips were on yours. You smiled into the kiss, standing on the tips of your toes to lovingly cup his cheeks with both your hands. While your fingers traced his jaw exactly how you knew he liked, his hands got a bit busier, leaving your body to tug on the straps that held your silk dress together.

Once you figured what he was up to, you pushed him away, quirking an eyebrow as you tried to hide a smirk.

“Nuh-uh mister, we have a church to be at in 20 minutes, and it’s a 10-minute drive!” You asserted, shaking your head at him. It didn’t matter that the room’s temperature seemingly shot up, and your husband was looking truly tempting – you were not going to let your horniness get the better of you. At least, well, not today.

“No se darán cuenta de que llegamos tarde, te prometo que seré rápido” Miguel mumbled, lips pressing hot kisses against the crook of your neck, hands still dexterously tugging at your dress.

“No Spanish skills necessary to know you’re telling me a big fat lie. You’re never quick with me.” You laughed loudly, and the sound was enough for both Miguels to fall in love with you all over again. A pair of hands were on his chest, and he was softly pulled away. You fixed the straps of your dress and flattened your attire before standing straight. “Time to go, Mr. O’Hara.”

“You’ve never complained about me not being quick.” Was his muttered response, accompanied by a smug smile. But for all the adoration and desire he felt for you, he was even more whipped for your resolve. If you said it was time to go, it was probably time to go. So, he quickly adjusted his suit, turning to face the phone’s camera once again. “Vale, vale. Ya es hora de irnos, muñeca.”

Your figure got closer and closer, and at once, the video had ended.

Miguel stared at your smiling figure in his screen for a few minutes, and then shut everything off, the reflection of his own tired face staring back at him. It wasn’t until he felt something wet on his hands that he realised he was crying.

He missed you.

Constantly, continuously, perpetually.

You were on his mind at all times. When he roamed the halls of the Spider Society without you by his side to keep him company, when he went out for those cafeteria empanadas that could never compare to yours, when he worked himself to exhaustion without your deft fingers to work on the knots on his back, without your soft kisses to calm him down after he got mad at the world.

And everything around him reminded him of you.

It was impossible to walk around the streets of Nueva York without being distracted by the colours, the sounds, the sights, the people. It all brought his mind back to the love of his life, the person he found it impossibly hard to live without. The florist near your old apartment, the one he’d buy flowers from every other week, the pizza place that was “so bad, Italians surely had to be crying” according to you, even the goddamned dogs on the street reminded him of the way you’d kneel down and act like an excited child every time you saw one.

It was absolute torture to live without you.

But the worst of all, was waking up in the morning.

Some days, he swore he could feel your touch. The way your fingers traced his jaw and slowly made its way to his hair, playing with his brown locks. Your touch was soft, comforting, a small gesture to remind him he was safe. You often expressed how much you adored watching Miguel when he slept. “You look so relaxed. No furrow in your brow, no scowl in your lips. You look so peaceful.” Was what you told him every time, and there was no way he could ever not grant your every wish.

And then it was if he could hear your voice. Your sweet, melodic voice, telling him “Good morning, my love” in that sleep-laced voice he adored so much. And Miguel would close his eyes and try his best to remain in that place not yet tainted by reality but not entirely claimed by dream. “Wake up, guapo” was the next thing you’d say, your imperfect Spanish-skills manifesting. You’d been adamant on learning Spanish for your husband, and fuck if it didn’t make Miguel’s heart swell. The way his wife (then girlfriend) was so willing to learn the language he grew up with in order to become closer to him made him feel all kinds of positive emotions, and Miguel could swear his love for you grew more and more each passing day.

And then, you’d say it.

“Te quiero, mi amor.” It was the one phrase you used repeatedly, and the one he loved hearing you say the most. It fell from your lips naturally, as if you had been saying it your entire life, with a sweetness reserved for him and only him.

Your touch felt so real. Your voice sounded so real.

So, he would stay still, hoping that remaining motionless would grant him just one more second with you. Hoping that his immobility would be enough for you to return to him, even if just for a few brief moments.

But it never was.

Seconds would go by, and your touch would waver. Your voice would become distant, your feeble existence flittering away, leaving him with nothing but the painful reminder that his sheets would forever be cold, his place in his bed would always be empty, his life would no longer have the warmth and serenity your love brought to him.

Miguel would glance at your delicate figure once again, his mind trying to memorise you right then and there – and just as quickly as you manifested, you would disappear.

Deserting him of all he ever loved.

He was tired of being alone. Tired of waking up besides cold white sheets, of not having your sweet praises to assure him he was doing the right thing at HQ, simply tired of leading an existence without you.

There was no way he could bring you back – hell, he knew first hand that toying with the multiverse was a bad idea. But it did hurt him, going on without you. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he could go on if you weren’t there, next to him.

All he needed was your presence, your company. All he needed was to apologize and hear your sweet voice again, and damn it if he wouldn’t be thankful.

And that’s when the idea came to him.

This was a prototype Miguel had been developing for a while.

It was like Lyla, the only difference being the AI’s purpose. Lyla was there to assist him, to help him out with missions, anomalies, and the management of the Spider Society. The project he was working on served another goal. It was more of a companion than an assistant, it was to always remain by his side, to cure him of his loneliness, of his anguish and despair.

The screen in front of Miguel lit up after he configured the final few settings. A tweak here, a little adjustment there, some fine tuning over there. Should this work, Miguel would no longer have to have his thoughts plagued by the heartbreak your loss so constantly granted him.

“Good morning,” Like magic (or better yet, technology), a figure materialised before him. It was hard to explain just what it was, or what it looked like. It was as if a transparent person had solidified into existence in his presence. While it had the form of a human, a head, a torso, two arms and legs, the figure was devoid of any features. No eyes, no nose, no lips or ears, no hair. It was almost like a hologram of a mannequin, a blank slate of a person he would later shape according to his vision.

Miguel stared back at the figure, not completely convinced, at least not yet, of what he was doing. Sure, he’d worked day and night for the past few weeks, he’d foregone sleep and adopted coffee as his only meal in order bring his project into fruition, but now that it was there, right before his eyes, the possibility of achieving his goal was terrifying.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure of talking to?” The figure inquired, its voice devoid of any emotions.

After a moment of silence, Miguel spoke up.

“My name is Miguel O’Hara.” He began, “I am your creator.”

“Greeting, Miguel O’Hara.” The program answered back. “I am the Cognitive Operations and Machine Personalized Interface for Nurturing. Or rather COMPANION, for short. I was created to act as a colleague, a confidant and friend. As my name implies, my goal is to provide a nurturing presence to whoever is controlling me.” Having said this, it looked up at Miguel and something flashed in its visual panel – the closest thing this body had to a pair of eyes – and the words AUTHORISE SCAN? flashed on the main screen before the entity spoke up once again.

“Would you like me to scan you, Miguel O’Hara? By scanning you, I can take a look at your vital signs, your physicality, and even run a scan of your psyche to provide you with a companion that would, according to my calculations, be the best possible match for you.”

But Miguel did not want a tailored companion. He did not need to be looked at by any AI to be told who or what would act as the best possible match for him. He did not need any technology to figure out what could possibly be the best person to keep him company.

“That will not be necessary,” he asserted, “No scan is to be run. I am to personally customise you until you conform to my exact specifications. Is that clear?”

The being nodded, its posture straight as an arrow.

“I understand. Would you like to begin the customisation process?” It asked.

Miguel hesitated. Should he be doing this? It’s not like he was doing anything wrong. He was a genius, after all, and this was just a new project. He’d created Lyla once, and look how far that got him, the good his AI did not only for himself, but the Spider Society and by consequence, the multiverse.

In fact, everything he did had helped the Spider Society in the long run. Everything he did was for the good of the Spider Society, the thing he worked on for years and years, the thing he built from scratch and ultimately led to his demise.

Wasn’t it time for him to be selfish?

“Yes. I’d like to begin the customisation process.” Miguel sat down on his chair once again, exhaling loudly through his nose. There was nothing wrong with what he was doing. He was allowed to be a genius scientist, he was allowed to build new things, and he was most of all, allowed to be selfish after all that he’d done for the multiverse.

“From now on,” he started, “You are to respond to [N/N].” It had been months since he’d last uttered that nickname. The sweet little nickname he always referred to you as. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a variation of your name, but it nearly brought tears to his eyes, because for the first time, you weren’t there to turn around and face him with that stunning grin of yours.

(“So, no cariño, or mi amor, or chiquita?” You’d once inquired, legs crossed as you sat on your husband’s desk, right in front of him.

“I must remain professional, [Y/N]. I have a reputation to uphold.” Was his response as he crossed his arms. If anyone else were to be on his lab, let alone sit on top of his desk, he would go feral. But he couldn’t find it in himself to berate you or tell you to move – you could do anything your heart desired, and Miguel would adore you for it.

“And you’re willing to hurt your poor wife’s feelings over a reputation?” You faked a pout, batting your eyelashes at him, something you knew he couldn’t resist.

“I can think of a few ways to make it up to my wife, actually.” And without missing a beat, you were suddenly on his lap, smiling as his lips moved with your and his hands delicately ran through your body.

Miguel did not do good on his promise. On the second day after this conversation, he’d asked you “Mi amor, won’t you please get me the prototype I left on our dining table back home?” In front of everyone else and gave up. It was physically impossible for him not to treat you with the gentleness he was so used to from you.)

“[N/N]. I understand. Is it short for anything else?”

Miguel remained silent for a few seconds, before nodding.

“It’s short for [Y/N].” The name left his lips the same way it always did. With adoration, with love, with heartbreak. He hadn’t uttered it in a long time and mentally chastised himself for doing so, as if not voicing it out loud was somehow disgracing your memory. He shook the thought away.

The entity nodded once again.

“I understand. Am I to respond to [Y/N] as well?”

“Yes.”

Lyla had been quietly hearing whatever was going on inside Miguel’s lab from afar. She’d seen him work nonstop, day and night, for the past few weeks, always being told “It’s a new project” and nothing more. Miguel had pushed her away (just as he had done with everyone else), and it was only when the little AI figure heard the new program’s purpose and your name that it all clicked together. Although she was uncapable of feelings, it upset her to see Miguel so broken. But much to her dismay, there was nothing she or anyone else could do.

The truth was, no one had seen him during those few weeks. He had locked himself and dived headfirst into this project, refusing to let anyone in, literally or figuratively, threatening to do unspeakable things to whoever disturbed him while he worked.

She shook her head and looked at him once again, wondering what he would do next.

The entity, now named [Y/N], was the next one to speak.

“I understand this is most commonly used as a female name. Would you like for me to take the form of a woman?”

Miguel nodded, and the entity’s form shaped before his eyes. It became softer, gentle. Its contours shifted until they exuded an air of grace, each line and curve seemed harmonious and supple, different from his own sharp and broad figure. And yet, it didn’t resemble any women he knew. Yet.

“Now that I have a name and your preferred anatomy, would you like to create a personality for me?” [Y/N] probed. Her thoroughness made Miguel falter. This was happening way too fast. First a name, now a personality. He hadn’t yet come to terms with your loss, at least not properly, and this whole thing was giving him major whiplash. After losing you, he hadn’t been able to process his feelings. Now he was asking himself to push all of that aside in order to create what would be his most ambitious task. Nevertheless, he pushed through.

“How so?”

[Y/N] nodded and spoke once again. Now that she had taken the form of a woman, her voice was somewhat softer. It was hard to pinpoint whether it was real or not, if it was from a real person or not, but it did not bring Miguel any comfort.

“By giving me your preferred traits, you can arrange for me a personality that will align with your exact specifications, as you put it. Perhaps you’d like me to be quieter and more reserved, in order not to disturb you too much. Or maybe you would prefer if I was loud and cheerful. It is up to you which traits I am given. I am here to provide company and a nurturing presence, so feel free to take your time until I meet your exact wishes.”

Miguel pondered briefly. What traits would he like this… this thing to have? At first, he tried to pretend, get his mind off it, try to convince himself he was merely making an AI program to keep him company. But he could not lie to himself any longer.

He wasn’t simply creating an AI companion.

He was creating you.

And after mulling it over one last time, he decided to stop being so fucking uptight and go through with the task at hand. This is why he had been working so hard. His goal was so close, it was right in front of him to just take it, and here he was, acting like a coward.

“I want you to be kind,” Miguel remembered how kind to a fault you were. Always willing to help others, always willing to cheer them up and put their needs before your own. So selfless, so ready to lend a helping hand. “And optimistic, positive. I want you to always see the bright side of things,” You had this ability of turning even the most despairing moments into hopeful ones, advising him to not let the dark thoughts get the best of him. You’d hold your head up high and remind him of who he was; Spiderman 2099, and that he had nothing to fear, for it’d work out in the end.

“I want you to be polite and cheerful. Simply… Simply happy to exist.” You’d turn even the blandest of moments into memories he’d want to keep forever. In one moment, Miguel would be laying around, holding you close in his arms, the next you’d be taking him to the rooftop of your building to “catch a glimpse of Zeus’s angry fit” whenever thunder roared through the sky. Cleaning your shared apartment could be considered a boring chore to many, but they did not have you, who made up games out of every single task, like catching socks or vacuuming. “You will see the beauty in things. And I want you to be ambitious.”

Sure, Miguel had spent countless nights hunched over his desk, trying to come up with the perfect suit, or trying to keep hold of the canon, but you were no stranger to nighttime restlessness. You’d sit by his side work on your own tasks, intent of going to sleep only, and only when you wrapped everything up. If he weren’t in so much pain, he would’ve laughed. He was once the one to wrap his arms around you, face on the crook of your neck as he whispered, “You’ve worked hard enough, chiquita. Time for bed.” Unfortunately for him, in a cruel twist of fate, the roles had reversed for the worse.

“Be stubborn,” Miguel continued, his voice, for once, not wavering. He was so resolutely determined to carry on with this venture, that for once, he didn’t feel his eyes tearing up as the memories of you crawled back inside his mind. “Especially when it comes to me. I… I tend to be quite headstrong when it comes to work. I often need a push.”

[Y/N] nodded once more.

“Remember, you can always adjust my personality to your liking. If you find you do not enjoy my stubbornness, you can change it and I will adjust my personality accordingly.”

It seemed so… Devoid of life. Sure, Miguel had given it some character traits already, but the whole thing wouldn’t be complete until he said so.

“Would you like to customise my voice now?” [Y/N] asked, “You can suggest a pitch and a tone, as well as a voice type. But I am also programmed to analyse any voice sources you provide and copy them. Which would you like to do?”

Miguel sighed. This whole process was getting harder and harder to get through it. It was one thing to give his new companion your name, your personality. But to give it your voice as well? That would be the same thing as making this being invincible, since your voice was the only one he ever seemed to obey. Even the Spider-People around him knew, with Peter teasing him endlessly about how he was “nothing more than a lovestruck puppy whenever you asked him for anything”. Miguel had always been on your beck and call, always willing to do anything you asked of him. By giving this being, this creature, this thing, your voice? He was setting himself up for disaster.

“I… I want you to scan a voice.”

The entity nodded.

“Please do provide me with enough samples of the voice you would like to copy. Preferably, samples that are not too monotonous in tone or in speech. By analysing all aspects of a voice, I can provide a more accurate result.”

Miguel had the following choices:

He could either turn on his screens, open a few folders named “[Y/N]”, and play one of the few hundreds of videos he had on you, or open his phone, connect it to said screens, and play the few voicemails you’d left him throughout your relationship.

There were a few differences in each choice, of course. The videos he kept on you were golden memories he gazed upon on lonely nights. Birthday parties, walks along the sunset, lazy mornings filled with raspy “Get this phone out of my face, mi amor”s, and bubbly “Mr. O’Hara’s a bit grumpy today, isn’t he?”s. Memories of you filming him while he set up your furniture, laughing along as you called him “Bob the Builder”, taped reminders of you cooking dinner for him, the cute little apron he so adored wrapped snugly around your hips, even a few images of when he fell asleep on your lap and you softly ran your fingers through his curls, singing him to sleep, murmuring that lullaby he so adored.

Compared to the voicemails on his phone, these videos were precious. They were worth more than what anyone could offer, in fact, they were priceless. These memories were the ones Miguel held so dear, the ones he cried over, the ones he spent months reminiscing upon after your loss.

On his phone, were 3 measly audio messages you’d left on three different instances of his life.

Usually, you never got to leave voicemails – Miguel would pick up on the first or second ring, always the attentive partner. But on the last few months of your life, that changed completely. And Miguel couldn’t help but chastise himself over it, cursing at himself whenever he remembers the hurt in your voice, the tears that he knew threatened to slip from your eyes and down your cheeks.

He didn’t deserve to use those videos as voice samples. He didn’t deserve to see you in your full glory, laughing at him, smiling and promising him eternal love and kindness. He didn’t deserve to hear your bubbling laughter once more, or fawn over your dazzling smile, he didn’t deserve to miss you. Not when he was the reason you were gone.

So, he decided to pull out his phone, intent on suffering. Intent on reminding himself of why you were gone, why he suffered so much. Miguel didn’t think he deserved to gaze at you in all your splendour. He didn’t think he, a mere, foolish, sinning mortal, was worthy of the living goddess that had once blessed his life, and now haunted his ever moment, gone forever.

“Hey Miggy!” Your voice, your voice was heard through his speakers. “I finally found the curry powder! Had to beat a lady with a stick to get it! It was almost out of stock! Anyway, why don’t you get started on the rice? I’ll be home in 10 and we can finish the recipe! Alright, that was it! Love you honey, see you home! End call. End call! End voicemail! How do you turn this thing off? End call. END CA-“ You were abruptly cut off as the call ended. Miguel chuckled dryly. He was the one to install the Bluetooth system on your phone (“Don’t want you texting and driving”, he had said.), and you had always complained about how your phone never picked up on you wanting to end calls. It became sort of an inside joke, especially since he managed to active and deactivate the system at first try, and it took you four or five to get it done.

(“It’s unfair,” You’d chided, wearing the most adorable pout and crossing your arms, “Technology loves you better.”)

Miguel looked at [Y/N] once again, hoping something, anything, to happen. But his program seemed to be patiently waiting for him to continue. One message was clearly not enough.

He pressed the second voicemail.

“Hey there, honey,” There was no mistaking the worry in your voice. It was still the one he loved so dearly, but laced in something sad, something that plagued him with terrible thoughts and churned inside him. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t worry, but you told me you’d be home by 7, and, well, it’s almost 9…” A soft pause followed, and Miguel could almost visualise it: you, sitting on your couch, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you nibbled your worries away. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I know it’s probably nothing serious, but, well, you know me-“ A dry chuckle “-Always worrying about my Miggy… Anyway, do tell me when you’re on your way, alright? I have a surprise for you, so get your pretty ass back home, Mr!”

End of call.

That was the first, well, not so good voice you’d ever left him.

If he could turn back time, Miguel would do it without hesitation. He’d go back to that very same day, convince his past self to stop working, and to go home to his wife. He’d tell past-him that his obsession with work was getting out of hand, and that he should stop it while he has the time, because once he’d fully immersed himself in his work, there was no coming back.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry.” The body in front of him spoke once again. “But these samples are not enough for me to create a voice profile. The procedure it at 74% completion. Would you like for me to continue analysing, or should I start over with another profile?”

Shit. He didn’t want it to come to this, he did not want to listen to that last voice message. He was willing to walk through fire, to go straight through hell as many times as asked of him, but that message was torture. No, it was worse than torture. Torture ended. Either in death, or in relief. But this? Whatever this was, it did not end. This message was perpetual suffering, playing in loop inside his head. Over, and over, and over again.

With whatever strength he still possessed, Miguel pressed the third and last voicemail.

“Miguel…” You had been crying. And if you hadn’t, you were just about to. Miguel recognised the knot in your throat, the lump that kept you from speaking and threatened to turn into tears. He hated that voice. The voice that meant you were hurting. The voice that meant he had hurt you. “I don’t know where you are, but… I shouldn’t have to wonder, because you were supposed to be here… Where are you?” This was when you started to cry. “Do you know how humiliated I was just now…? Do you know how stupid I felt, waiting, sitting on that exam room by myself?” You were sniffling. God, how Miguel wished he could just go back and hug you, how he wished he could dry your tears and promise you it would be alright, he would fix everything, he’d be better.

“This has to stop,” Despite the tears, you were still talking. That was just who you were, able to speak through the pain, always willing to keep pushing forward. “This stupid obsession with work, Miguel, it has to stop. I’m tired, I’m so tired. And I’m so lonely, Miguel… I’m so lonely, I go to sleep by myself, and the sheets are still cold when I wake up… I don’t see you, you don’t come home, and you push me away when I visit you in HQ…”

“When are you going to go back to being my husband? I don’t want Spiderman. I want my husband, I want my Miguel back, I want the man I love back…” You sobbed, unbothered by how you sounded. You weren’t even sure if he could make out any words, but you kept on going – if you didn’t tell him what was going on your mind now, there was no way you ever could.

“I miss you… Just… Come home Miguel… I can’t do this by myself…” He could hear you wiping your tears, and softly clearing your throat. “Anyway… The doctor said the baby was fine. But I guess if you really cared, you’d come to the appointment.” This last part was muttered, and Miguel could swear he heard both yours and his heart break.The baby. “Come home. Please.”

And just like that, the call ended.

Miguel was crying. This last message… This was the one he couldn’t help but listen to almost every day before passing out from exhaustion. “It’s your fault [Y/N]’s gone. You neglected your wife, you prioritised work over her, you couldn’t protect her.” Was what the voices in his head uttered, day after day, night after night. Every second he was reminded of how he left you behind.

He'd been working late every day, neglecting his meals, neglecting his sleep, neglecting his wife, who cried herself to sleep every night, holding tightly onto her husband’s pillow – which brought her small comfort. He would lash out at you when you tried to get him to take breaks, treating you like you were nothing but one of his Spider-People, refusing to look you in the eye and not even returning your “I love yous”.

One day, you had tried calling him, but to no avail. It was only when Jessica and Peter burst into his office, saying you’d also called them, that Miguel decided to check on you back at your shared apartment. He was hoping to find you whining, curled up on your couch as you pouted at him and told him you missed him. He thought he’d find you throwing a tantrum, too hormonal to understand how important and busy his work was.

But nothing could’ve prepared him to what he saw.

The metallic smell that permeated the room should’ve been a dead giveaway, but Miguel was too focused on returning to HQ that he ignored it, and made his way to your bedroom, where you most likely were.

And that’s when he saw you. Drenched in blood, face red and puffy from the tears that ran down your cheeks. You were laying on your shared bed, body marred with deep gashes from what he assumed was a knife. On one hand was your phone, on the other, Miguel’s first Spiderman mask. “For protection”, he once said. You always held on to it whenever you were scared.

It’s nearly impossible to describe the pain and heartache Miguel felt looking at your lifeless body. A conversation with his neighbours informed him that the entire building had been victim of a burglar, and you were the only mortal victim, unable to fight him off.

It was his fault. He’d been too immersed in his work, pushing you away, leaving you to the loneliness of your apartment, and now here you were, dead. There was no other way to say it, you were dead, and so was your child.

Oh God.

Your child.

Tears clouded his vision; irrationality clouded his judgement. Miguel was most certainly not thinking straight when he tried carrying your body back to HQ. Perhaps something could be done about the baby. Perhaps your child would live, would get to grow up, his eyes and your hair, your smile and his nose, anything that proved you still lived in something, in someone other than just his memory.

But that wasn’t possible.

That night, Miguel cried for the first time. He wept, hands hiding his face as the images of your ripped apart belly and glassy eyes tormented his thoughts.

It was his fault.

You were gone, and it was his fault.

If only he hadn’t worked so hard. If only he’d been home with you, doting on his beautiful pregnant wife like any decent husband would, none of this would’ve happened. The burglar would’ve tried to enter his house, and within seconds he’d be slammed against the wall. Miguel would have held you close that night, whispering soft “It’s okays” and “You’re fine, mi amors” repeatedly until your heartbeat steadied, and you fell into a peaceful sleep.

But that was not possible.

Not anymore.

And it was, irrevocably, his fault.

And then the unthinkable happened.

“Voice profile completed.”

It was you. It was your voice that spoke back to him. It had that sweet musicality to it that he so adored, that he once was blessed to hear every day when he woke up, that chastised him for being too stubborn, that pleaded for one more kiss whenever he had to go to work, that giggled excitedly whenever he whispered soft Spanish praises, limbs tangled with yours.

Miguel looked up. It was your voice, but the creature did not look like you at all. All it shared was a name and your sweet, sweet voice.

Mierda. Fuck this. Al diablo con la sutileza.

Miguel missed you and he was going to have you, one way or the other.

“I want you to look like her.” He all but growled, fingers angrily tapping at the screen so he could find your pictures. “There. Scan her. I want you to look like her. And stop with the formalities. You’re to call me Miguel. ¿Me entiendes?” His voice was feral with the prospect of seeing you again – or at least a construction of you. The thought was overwhelming, and he had to sit back down, his face finding purchase in his hands.

He was past “What am I doing?”

“Miguel?” You asked.

No. Not you.

[Y/N].

Miguel looked up, the same way a sinner does at the altar, praying for redemption. It was gorgeous. You were gorgeous. And looked oh, so real.

Your– [Y/N]’s eyes were looking down at his figure, lips slightly agape, the way you always did when you quite couldn’t figure out what was wrong. [Y/N] pursed her lips and exhaled softly.

“Miguel, are you okay?” [Y/N] said. You said. It was getting hard to tell you two apart, to distinguish what was creature and what was human, what was holographic entity and what was the love of his wife. Especially when you looked the same, when you sounded the same, when you looked at him with the same tenderness, the same love. You were identical. Same eyes, same smile, same hair, same figure. It was as if, before him, stood a perfect copy of you.

“[Y/N]?” Miguel questioned, too delirious to try and figure out who he was talking to.

“Yes? Is everything alright? You seem distressed…” Slowly, your figure – [Y/N]’s figure, right? – approached him. You looked down ([Y/N]...? [Y/N] looked down...?), soft apprehension clear in your voice.

“Oh, my love… Cariño…” Miguel sobbed as he looked at you – so gorgeous, so radiant as the day he met you, with eyes that could give the stars in the sky a run for their money, with lips so plush one couldn’t help but want to kiss them at all times, the love of his life, right before his eyes. “I missed you so much…”

He took you in, all softness and loveliness and so you, it almost scared you. You, the goddess, the saint, ready to rid him of his sins and absolve him, to make him a new man untainted by grief and heartbreak.

He had half a mind to touch you before a tiny voice in the back of his head advised him against it – the delusion hadn’t sunk in entirely yet, and he knew your image would flicker, a simple hologram compared to his solidness, to his existence.

But it didn’t matter.

He had given himself the second chance he so desperately wanted, and he was not going to waste it this time.

A/N: I hope you guys liked it! All headers are mine hehe I made them in PixelLab in like 5 minutes lol :) Please do not repost my work without my permission, thank you!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara scenarios #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse x reader #atsv x reader #atsv x you #spiderverse x you #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman

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obsessivevoidkitten · 2 years

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Mojave, Mo Problems

Yandere Male Deathclaw x Gender Neutral Reader (CW: Non-con, painful sex, breeding, oviposition, dacryphilia, overstimulation, knotting, sex with a deathclaw, bullying, minor character death, reader abused (by raiders), raiders treating deathclaw badly, cock warming, general yandere behavior) Word Count: 2.2k (Okay the sex in this one is pretty extreme and there is some violence. The deathclaw is not mean, but the sex with such a large and primal monster is not gentle. This is the first fanfiction I have ever written based on one of my favorite games, Fallout: New Vegas, though albino deathclaws are not in that particular game I went with it anyway. I also took liberties and added oviposition. I hope some people can enjoy this.) You had been a simple farmer, living alone and not bothering anyone. You had just kept to yourself as you cultivated what passed for fruits and vegetables these days. And sometimes you hunted geckos and other creatures to supplement your diet. Your dwelling was what had once been a warehouse and series of small storage units near an oasis in the Mojave Wasteland. It was a lot of hard work, but it had not been the worst life considering the hard times the world had fallen into. Something you now knew first hand. A little over a year ago everything changed, a small group of raiders had stumbled upon your secluded home. They wasted no time in putting you in your place and forcing you to serve as what was basically their slave. You did most of the farming work, the cooking, and all of the cleaning. You supposed that you were lucky to be alive, but what a miserable life it was. Long gone were your days of freedom replaced only with thankless labor and beatings at the slightest provocation. It was truly awful, you were exhausted every single day and always sore from a torturous combination of grueling work and of bruises that always littered your body to some degree. Almost 2 months ago your life became even more difficult. The raiders had trapped an even larger than normal albino deathclaw in a huge cage they had set up near the storage unit buildings. Guess who was in charge of feeding it? It had been scary at first but you had gotten used to it, and it no longer growled or roared at your approach, it seemed to have learned that you were the human that gave it food. Even though the beast, dubbed Skarr, by the raiders for the scar on its face, scared the hell out of you you could not help but feel sorry for it. Even if he did stare at you a lot in an unsettling manner. It was just as much a prisoner as you were. That was what really made things difficult about it being here, seeing slowly waste away in a cage that was too small for such a giant beast, seeing it get harassed by the raiders who threw things at it and poked at it with makeshift spears just for their own entertainment. You wished that you could just set it free, but you had no access to the key and you were sure it would not be happy with any humans in its vicinity. Recently, you had been sweeping the area near the cage when the deathclaw looked at you and whimpered. It moved its tail so that it stuck out of the cage and you saw a nasty gash left by one of your mutually shared abusers. You were scared to do so but you approached cautiously, fully aware that you were within reach of the deadly claws for which deathclaws are named, and took a closer look at his tail. But Skarr knew you were the only nice human and that they mistreated you, so he made no aggressive sounds or movements and let you examine him. You rummaged through your pockets and pulled out a stimpak you had been saving in case the raiders ever got too rough and hurt you more than they had intended. You were not entirely sure that it would work on a deathclaw, but you could tell by the seriousness of the wound combined with the poor conditions that Skarr was kept in that this would almost certainly get infected, so you carefully applied the stimpak before bandaging the wound with a piece of your pants that you had torn off. Suddenly Skarr turned and licked your cheek gently, you flinched thinking he might hurt you but that was all he did. After administering the stimpak he already looked a bit better than he had looked in days. You wanted to go get him some extra rations, but it would have to wait until night time, you had to go harvest crops before night fall so you could make breakfast tomorrow. Skarr wished you could stay. He wished a lot of things. He was the bigger and stronger of the two of you so in his mind he should be taking care of you, you were clearly supposed to be his mate. How else would you explain how nice you were to him?? You fed him and took care of his wounds and even without weapons you approached him. So that settled it, you were his soft-mate. Skarr watched you, something he frequently enjoyed doing to pass the time, as you grabbed a basket and headed to the field across from his cage and began picking ripe produce. Suddenly Frack, the raider leader, passed by you and decided to punch you just to see you topple over in pain. You fell over and he kicked once before chucking and walking away. Skarr was livid. His soft-mate (Y/N) had been assaulted and needed him! He was enraged. His anger in conjunction with that medicine that energized him earlier made him go berserk. He suddenly had the power to rend his cage asunder and he roared LOUDLY as he did so. Frack looked over to see what the commotion was and did not have time to piss himself before Skarr closed the distance between them and removed the burden of Frack’s head from Frack’s neck. The large deathclaw sniffed at you, now covered in Frack’s blood, and licked you tentatively to make sure you were okay. You were still and did not even dare to breath until Skarr vanished after sniffing the air. The giant monster ran off and you could hear a number of screams that were cut very short. And the sickening ripping of flesh and snapping of oh so fragile human bone. You decided that now would probably be a good time to leave, Skarr had not harmed you yet but he was a deathclaw and he was a raging deathclaw at that and there was simply no predicting his behavior.

You ran to get some supplies but Skarr was upon you before you even had them all gathered. He was so thrilled, he could finally be with his soft-mate. He could finally take care of you now. He scooped you up easily, but carefully into his large claws and licked your neck and cheeks happily, over and over, with a blood stained tongue. You recoiled at the sensation of the tongue and scent of blood and viscera that clung to Skarr and specifically clung to his breath, he had clearly taken a moment to catch up on lost meals. The creature noticed how you flinched away and started to cry in fear, but he was not too worried, you were tiny and just scared from all the excitement, he would show you that he was just keeping you safe and only intended to take care of you and give you his eggs to incubate. And what better time than to show you now after he had just rescued you and defeated your mutual enemies? It would be a glorious celebration of your victory! He easily cut off your pants and underwear with one of his digits and tossed them aside, he sat down as he sniffed your entrance. Hmm, a bit too tight to get an egg in there. But no worries, he would not deprive you of the opportunity to be a mate for someone so strong. He decided to lick at your hole with his long tongue until you were loose enough to slide into. You flailed pathetically as you felt something warm and slimy ghost against your hole. But deathclaws were not really beings focused on foreplay, so that was the only warning you received before his tongue plunged roughly into you. “Sk-Skarr stop!”, you squealed at the sudden intrusion. But he took little notice of your protests. The only thing he even understood from what you had said was the moniker that you humans called him. If anything you squealing his name just encouraged him. Skarr was eager to learn what it would feel like to knot such a tight little soft-mate. After prodding your depths tentatively with his tongue he began redoubling his efforts to loosen you up, you squirmed in pleasure and discomfort as you felt it twisting and writhing inside you. You would have struggled harder, but you were ever wary of accidentally hurting yourself on his large claws, and you did not exactly want to anger him either after seeing what he had done so easily to Frack. You decided that for your own safety you would submit. When you stopped your silly struggles your deathclaw lover felt your hole relax enough to hopefully take his length. He slid his tongue out and turned you to face him as he lowered you towards his throbbing erection. You saw it ominously below you, it was slick, slimy, and an angry red color, with many ridges. It bobbed slightly, eager to feel you around it. You blanched at the sight, it was easily the size of your arm in both length and thickness, how was THAT supposed to fit inside of YOU? He lined it up with your hole that had been so well lubed with thick deathclaw saliva (and traces of blood that had been on his tongue) and slammed you down on it fully. You fought back the urge to scream as tears streamed down your face. Despite being much looser from his previous oral ministrations than you would have been otherwise it was still an insanely titanic thing to be impaled upon, especially so unceremoniously. Skarr was not an idiot, he knew you were in pain, but it was for the best. He knew you would love it once you had a nice strong egg inside of you and you would get used to him breeding you over time. Besides, he was being much gentler with you, his soft-mate, than he would be with another deathclaw. He thrust himself into you slowly and licked up from your neck to your tear covered cheeks in an effort to comfort you as best he could. Skarr had no desire for you to be in pain, but he could not deny that the sight of you crying and the sound of your little whimpers were not the most wondrous things to ever grace his senses. Except, of course, for the feeling of being so tightly inside of your most intimate depths. As he continued to breed you suddenly the feeling of fullness increased even more, a part of his cock was somehow swelling inside of you like some kind of canine. The pain that had actually just started to diminish was now back and worse than it was previously. You gasped and groaned, your breaths ragged and pained. Mercifully Skarr slowed down the pace considerably, letting you adjust to his knot tying you to him. Fast fucking was not required for sex with a deathclaw, he was perfectly content slowly humping into you and just enjoying the friction on his cock, and most importantly, his knot. You clung to him desperately, limply leaning on his strong chest for support. The pain finally subsided and the slightest modicum of pleasure was allowed to surface as the ridges and knot of his cock brushed slowly against every inch of your inner folds. You tried to just focus on the pleasure and ignore everything else about your situation, but it was hard given how over stimulated you were. Skarr had started licking and very carefully mock-biting your neck. Ghosting his powerful teeth against your tender human flesh. Your large mate kept up the slow pace, allowing you to enjoy it to the extent that you were able until finally you came harder than you ever had in your life. Feeling your entire body shudder around his cock was just the push Skarr needed to take him over the edge and start pumping you full of viscous deathclaw cum. Though unknown to you this was really to lube you up and prep you for the main event. You shrieked. Suddenly you felt something massive and hard deposited into you through his cock. You noticed your belly actually bulged out a bit now. He held you close to him and licked your tears away again as you sobbed. His knot did not deflate in the least, you were stuck crying pitifully as his dick was firmly entrenched within you. Skarr enjoyed the intimacy of you being his little cock sleeve though. He felt so close to you. Eventually, after a few hours, when his cock decided it was time to slide out of you, he would take you back to his den where he lead a large deathclaw pack and you would be perfectly protected from all the cruel horrors of the Mojave Wasteland. Except the horror between Skarr’s legs, but you would get used to that one eventually.

#yandere teratophilia #yandere monster #yandere deathclaw #yandere Fallout #male yandere x gn reader #Male yandere x gender neutral reader #yandere boyfriend #my oc #my oc Skarr #Yandere fallout: nv #monster boyfriend

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yourantag · 10 months

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Glass Heart (Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: I love me my different perspectives. So, here is the Ithaqua POV/continuation of "Paper Stars." It comes with the last of my sanity :) Word count: 2.5k words Summary: He can't love you. He said it specifically that way because it would be a lie if he ever said that he didn't love you. Ithaqua could never not love you. Even when he loves you enough to make his glass heart shatter, he won't stop. Even as he cuts his fingers putting it back together, he can't stop loving you, just as he can't love you.

When he first met you, Ithaqua's first thought was simple.

'Ugh, a stunner.'

Certainly not the most romantic thought in the world, but he is a hunter after all. Besides, you made the match quite difficult with your abilities, so could you really blame him?

Despite his annoyance, Ithaqua (begrudgingly) respected your skills. You hadn't been at the manor long, barely having arrived before him, yet you had already seemingly mastered your abilities and understood the game well. It made him a bit curious, since most who entered the manor fumbled at the start. Such high adaptive capabilities matched with a kind heart and intelligent mind rarely appeared naturally.

Besides that, this was Oletus manor. No one who came here, willingly or unwillingly, was truly normal. They were unfortunate, greedy, foolish, or naive, if not all at once usually. Their stories, which they seldom shared, were one's that people could only say are pitiful, really.

So, what are you? Another greedy soul who wished for gold, glory, and more? Perhaps you were someone seeking repentance for their past sins, or a way to forget them? Were you seeking closure from the loss of a loved one? Or, maybe, you were here for revenge?

Interestingly, as he came to get to know you, he found that you weren’t any of them at all. You had come to the manor to find yourself, as you had lost most of your memories due to a horrible accident.

"It's weird." You had said. "Being surrounded by people who apparently know me, yet I don't know them much, if at all. They keep telling me I should like this or hate that, but... that's not who I am now. I guess what I wanted most was to know who I was before, not to become them, but to understand. Understand who it is they miss. It's weird to miss someone who's right in front of you, but in a way, the old me died that day, and now, I'm here. Shouldn't I at least try to be empathetic to those who were close to me?"

It's stupid, he thinks, that those close to you hurt you, ripping you apart to find any shred of the "you" they once knew. Certainly, it's heartbreaking to have someone you love forget you, but hurting them won't bring back their memories. Ithaqua can't understand why they would rather mourn the you that's gone than to love the you that's here now. Instead of thinking about all the memories you had lost, it would be better to treasure the time they had with you and make new ones.

Perhaps it's just human nature to be stuck in the past, to mourn what they had, to lust for more than they need.

Regardless, Ithaqua found that you were lovely just the way you were. Even as pieces of your memories came back, as you started to grow more aware of your habits and why you did them, you were still you. You shared with him sometimes the memories that came back, smiling as you fiddled with another paper star you made.

"A friend once told me that if I make a thousand paper stars, I can get a wish fulfilled!"

"Well then, I suppose you'll get that wish quite soon. You've been making those absent-mindedly for quite a while."

You had smiled, a proud one that lit up your whole face. You proclaimed you would make a thousand jars of a thousand paper stars. After all, a thousand stars for a wish seems quite cheap, even if this is all superstition.

Whenever Ithaqua remembers that moment, he can't help but smile. Such determination for something you weren't even sure was going to work. Childish, yet that flickering hope was too brilliant for him to willingly extinguish. So, he didn't, watching and sometimes even helping to grow your collection of stars.

Many years passed, and as the days flew by, Ithaqua couldn't quite hide the feelings that had started to take root in his chest. They were beautiful and complicated, making him lose his cool and fumble where he usually wouldn't. They were odd, they were powerful, and they were so painfully human.

Ithaqua didn't think he was capable of being human again before he met you.

His glass heart, once perfect and whole, had shattered the same day his mother was ripped away from him. With that, all of his reason and humanity had left him. Ithaqua became a monster that hunted down everyone who dared hurt his mother, was even remotely involved. It didn't matter who they were; for as long as they assisted in hurting him and his family, they were dead.

Yet, as revenge tends to do, it left him empty and cold once he had acquired it. The flames of anger and hatred quietly burned out as all that remained was sorrow. Beneath his desire for vengeance was a boy who simply wanted his mother back. However, lost lives could never come back, and even if they could, Ithaqua didn't know if he had the courage to look his mother in the eye after all he had done.

When he had told you this, his sins laid bare before your eyes, you hugged him. No fear touched you, nor did any feelings of hatred or disgust. If anything, you looked like you were in pain. It was the first time in his life Ithaqua ever experienced someone being angry on his behalf, who saw who he was and sought to understand rather than to judge.

Perhaps his sins were unforgivable, he knew they weren't one's he could easily cleanse, but when you held him and told him you loved him regardless, he felt that he'd do whatever it takes to be forgiven. Ithaqua thought that, if he repented and were one day forgiven, he would then at least have the right to one day tell you how much he loved you. Would you wait until that day? His heart made of glass, fragile as ever, felt like it healed at the mere thought.

However, life isn't so kind as to offer you the time to do all that you wish. It marches on ruthlessly and takes with it people, places, and memories.

It was an accident, but he overheard it.

"I can't wait to leave the manor."

Of course you would want to leave. Ithaqua would never hold it against you to want to leave. After all, for as long as you resided within the manor, the chances of you being pulled into a match was practically 100%. It was better if you left the manor.

Yet, he forgot one crucial detail.

One day, you will be able to leave the manor. Ithaqua, however, would never be able to leave the manor, not alive at least. Hunters were those who were long dead, immortal, or the like. Ithaqua was someone who was both mortal yet immortal, therefore unable to leave. Hunters could only leave either by moving on to the afterlife or by going to their special realms. Therefore, Ithaqua would never quite be able to stand by your side no matter what he chose to become.

It was a terrible truth, one only he would know. The other hunters would say it'd be fine if they knew, but he felt it was not. The only way for the two of you to be together is if you stayed in the manor, and that isn't something either or you want. Ithaqua could never ask you to suffer so he could keep you by his side. He would rather live his life without you if it means you'd be happy.

He loves you. He can't help but love you. But if it means you'll suffer, he can't love you. Ithaqua refuses to be the reason you suffer, even if it means breaking his glass heart with his own hands.

So, he starts acting as if he's blind and deaf. Ithaqua is by no means an idiot, nor is he oblivious, but he can certainly pretend he is. Even as you stare at him with love and adoration, even as you grow more comfortable with him, even as you clearly show that you're in love with him as much as he is with you, he can't. Though his heart beats for you, his mind will not allow it to do anything beyond that.

He wants to hold you, press his hands into your cheeks and watch you flounder in confusion, wants to kiss words of affection onto every inch of your skin until you realize that you are loved, but he cannot.

Ithaqua can't love you, yet he can't stop loving you. He knows this is hurting you just like it's hurting him, but what else can he do? He can't let you know the truth, he knows you'd certainly stay if you did. That is the worst case scenario, truly. So, to protect you, he must hurt you.

How cruel.

The cruelest thing, however, is how the marching of time finally comes to knock on his door, informing him his time with you is over. You are to leave him in barely a day.

The first feeling that bubbles up is relief. You'll finally be free, you'll finally be safe. He says he's happy for you when you tell him, and he means it. It's only once you leave that the other feelings boil over.

Grief, longing, anger, and pain. They overwhelm him from the inside out, crushing his poor, poor heart as he weather's the storm of his emotions. For a moment, a moment of intense weakness, Ithaqua considers asking you to stay. To ask you to stay by him and don't leave him please don't leave him he'll do anything just please-

But he knows he can't.

When you finally leave, when he feels you slip from his grasp like sand slipping through fingers, he has to stop himself from reaching out. Ithaqua can only let himself mourn as he has lost the person he has loved the most once again, this time truly and wholly due to himself.

Then, he discovers the messages. Well, more like memos. He breaks apart star after star, reading sentence upon sentence, forming what he can only describe as the most terribly beautiful thing he's ever seen. Each star marks the feelings you felt, the Ithaqua you saw and loved.

It's painful. So, so very painful, to see through your eyes who he was and how much you loved him. A galaxy of "I love you's" you never said, confessions and prayers littering a milky way formed from stardust and dedication. The heart crushing mess that tore you up inside as you tried to contain it longer and longer, forming paper stars in its wake. The only remnants of you, the only proof of your pain and affection.

Then, he remembers.

"I'll make a thousand jars of a thousand paper stars. I'll fill loads of bottles and jars, put them everywhere in my room, and get a wish! What do you think, Ithaqua?"

Never in his life was Ithaqua more glad to have the wind at his beck and call.

He ran down halls, climbed up stairs, and passed seemingly millions of windows and doors. The whistling of the whipping wind seemed to beckon him, begging him to run faster. He wound around corners, barely missing the remaining hunters and survivors, before finally, at last, he arrived at his destination.

Your room.

As he lifts his hand up to open the door, he hesitates. Ithaqua rests his hand on the handle, pursing his lips as he wonders if this is a good idea. Certainly, knowing everything that you felt will bring him more pain. It will bring him closure, perhaps, but truly, nothing could be worth the heartache he'll feel.

However, turning away now would be the same as turning away from you. He'd be turning away from the truth, from the fact that he had a chance with you, yet was too cowardly to try and keep you by his side, to make it work somehow. Even if the world is not ideal, when it's for the person you love, you can compromise and make almost anything happen.

So, he opens the door, finding it much emptier than the last time he visited. Photos and clothes, little knick knacks and trinkets that once filled your room are missing, taking with it the feel of home. All that remains are the bare furniture and the bottles and jars of paper stars.

It started slowly, Ithaqua opening the containers on your table. Then, mere moments later, he was opening hundreds upon hundreds of jars, bottle after bottle, pouring out the universe and its secrets upon the table as he opened star upon star. Depending on how long you had been at the manor when creating them, the feelings differed, as did the colors.

Frantically, desperately, Ithaqua read through the fine texts, each word stabbing into him worse than the last. The first stars he had read from were the most recent. The further back in time he went, the less hopeless, pained, and tearful they were. The further he went back, the more lovesick your words became.

"Today, Ithaqua tripped and fell like a baby fawn on ice. It was the funniest thing I've ever seen, yet somehow he still managed to look attractive while doing so. This is absolutely unfair!"

"With eyes like the abyss, hair like platinum, and a smile both mischievous and kind, Ithaqua is someone even Aphrodite can't help but adore."

"I didn't think I'd ever fall in love at first sight, but when it's someone with witty humor, the most charming laugh, and heartwarming nature, how could I not? Ithaqua is akin to what love-struck poets would write sonnets about."

Ithaqua is drowning in affection, the night sky within his hands suffocating him with each earnest whisper of love. Like prayers upon the wind, sweet and sincere and so very innocent, they tell him every word of worship that had passed through your mind, forming sentences upon sentences on delicate paper.

His shoulders shake and shiver, his hands crumpling paper despite his best efforts. Tears fall with renewed vigor, as though the ones he'd shed when you left hadn't happened at all. The ache in his chest hurts in a way he never thought possible, burning yet cold, numb yet all too much.

For the third time in his life, Ithaqua feels his heart shatter.

He begs and he pleads under his breath, sobs breaking through his words while one hand clutches where his heart should be. Ithaqua grits his teeth as he thinks of all that could've been, of all that had happened, the pain he'd given to both you and him when it could've been love instead.

Throughout his breakdown, Ithaqua can't help but wonder if, instead of taking matters into his own hands, instead of not giving you a choice, instead of sabotaging himself, if he had loved you earnestly as himself, unabashedly, could things have been different? If he had asked you to stay, if he threw away his pride and asked like a priest on their knees, begging at the altar, could you have loved him now as he loves you?

#idv #identity v #identity 5 #idv ithaqua #ithaqua x reader #identity v fanfic #idv fanfic

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